After climbing Mount Rangitoto, I was sunburnt and exhausted. But also inspired.
I had just enough time to hop on a bus and get home, take a quick shower, scarf down dinner and return to the downtown district. When I arrived, I was greeted by Christian, his girlfriend Emily and Renee, all of whom gave me big hugs and smiles. I love poets.
I signed up on the slam list with some hesitation. Although I had been exposed to some spoken word two days prior to the slam, I knew very well there was a difference between “spoken word” and “slam”. Although the spoken word poets were political and articulate, I didn’t know what to expect from the slam poets. They could’ve been political and articulate too, or brash and drunk, or academic and boring. I was pleasantly placated when, poet after poet, took the stage with incredible confidence and stature. It was great for the documentary… very not great for my nerves, for these people I was admiring were also my competition (in the very silly non-competative aspect of a poetry slam). How would I measure up? Would they be able to understand my accent? Would they think my poetry style was weird (because although they were all quite talented, I still felt like my style stood out a bit… It could’ve just been paranoia though). I’ve gotten used to the hushed silence the audience gives after my name is announced at a poetry slam, the shuffling and craning of necks to see “who is this new person, and why haven’t we seen her before?” It used to unnerve me. But I’ve grown kind of fond of it. And it seemed like Auckland grew fond of me as well, because as the night wore on, with each round the polite applause after my name grew louder and louder. It was a good feeling, knowing I could connect with complete strangers.
One thing that I found quite distinguishing about the poetry slam in Auckland was the sheer diversity of the poets and the crowd, as well as the poetry itself. I hate to compare poetry scenes, but I really did feel a bit like I was in new york- the poets ranged in ages from 22 (I was no doubt the youngest), to late 50’s. Different ethnicities, different genders, different nationalities, topics and styles filled the room with their words. I loved every moment of it. Yes, there was some bad poetry. But the bad poetry is equally valid and almost more valuable, in my opinion, because it inspires the audience members to write. A friend I was sitting with (it was his first exposure to spoken word) talked to me about it during the ride home. I could see the gears turning in his mind, the very familiar thoughts of “I could do that” or “I could beat those guys” that always hits people, even just for a brief moment, during a poetry slam. I encouraged him to start writing poetry. That’s how all slam poets got started: they went to a slam, wrote a poem, went to the next slam and just put it out there.
So the night ended well. My friend was inspired (and apparently so were the boys at the table behind us. One of them recited a poem he had written on a napkin to my camera during one of the breaks). Poetry slam had done it’s job, and done it well. And as for me, I had the pleasure of competing one on one with a very talented poet from Auckland. As the last round is audience vote, I was surprised to find the majority voted for me. But as always with a slam, who won didn’t really make that much of a difference in the relationships between us poets, and he and I had a great interview afterwards.
I won 15 bucks. Which I promptly spent on food.
But it was my first win, and I was happy to see the balance in my life beginning to return. I love auckland poetry, and auckland poetry loves me.
I perform again next Tuesday, as a feature poet for Poetry Live. It’s my first time featuring. I’ve come a long way from that shy camera girl in Canada who wouldn’t call herself a poet, let alone compete in a slam.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
At the top of Mount Rangitoto
At the top of Mount Rangitoto, it began to rain.
I didnt mind, I was already soaked. I read a book when I was younger, called "Writers on Writing" and one of the chapters was about in order to be inspired, you must move your feet. So many writers are active (I know the stereotype about us artistic types being pathetically unathletic, so laugh all you want...).
It began to rain. Hard. But the incredible thing was, I watched the rain move in from over the city and mainland of Auckland, and slowly make its way toward us. I ran into the shelter, followed by a handful of other people. As we waited for the rain to pass, I struck up a conversation with a local university professor about the oral tradition of the Maori people (the people native to New Zealand). With a few quick strokes of his phone's keypad, he gave me the name and contact number of a professor at the university who would be able to help me get in contact with some Maori poets... or at least people who know about the Maori oral tradition. Beautiful
They always called New Zealand the land of the long white cloud. But now I understand why.
At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I saw New Zealand's colors.
It's not a big mountain. It only took be about an hour to hike to the summit. But it's a volcano, really, and that's what's incredible about it. It just rises out of nowhere in the sea. A large black mountain, covered in mysterious ferns that love the volcanic soil. The colors of this country are muted. Shades of shades. Contrasting beautifully with the bright boldness of australia, this land is darker, mysterious, softer. Covered almost constantly by clouds, it rises out of the water, a thin dark stretch of land. Almost every mountain and hill in this country is a volcano. In some cities, the ground erupts in hot angry bursts. The rain comes without warning. The sun is hotter than in the northern hemisphere.
At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I realized where I am. And how lucky I am to be here.
Breathless. I want to share it with someone. But I've only got my camera, and my memory. And I suppose that's good enough.
After climbing down, I slept for an hour on the beach, waiting for the ferry.
I am sunburnt, sandy and salty. Muted and exhausted.
I am competing in a poetry slam in 1 hour. My mind is a muddled mess. Where am I going? What is the point of all this? It's just too beautiful for words.
I didnt mind, I was already soaked. I read a book when I was younger, called "Writers on Writing" and one of the chapters was about in order to be inspired, you must move your feet. So many writers are active (I know the stereotype about us artistic types being pathetically unathletic, so laugh all you want...).
It began to rain. Hard. But the incredible thing was, I watched the rain move in from over the city and mainland of Auckland, and slowly make its way toward us. I ran into the shelter, followed by a handful of other people. As we waited for the rain to pass, I struck up a conversation with a local university professor about the oral tradition of the Maori people (the people native to New Zealand). With a few quick strokes of his phone's keypad, he gave me the name and contact number of a professor at the university who would be able to help me get in contact with some Maori poets... or at least people who know about the Maori oral tradition. Beautiful
They always called New Zealand the land of the long white cloud. But now I understand why.
At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I saw New Zealand's colors.
It's not a big mountain. It only took be about an hour to hike to the summit. But it's a volcano, really, and that's what's incredible about it. It just rises out of nowhere in the sea. A large black mountain, covered in mysterious ferns that love the volcanic soil. The colors of this country are muted. Shades of shades. Contrasting beautifully with the bright boldness of australia, this land is darker, mysterious, softer. Covered almost constantly by clouds, it rises out of the water, a thin dark stretch of land. Almost every mountain and hill in this country is a volcano. In some cities, the ground erupts in hot angry bursts. The rain comes without warning. The sun is hotter than in the northern hemisphere.
At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I realized where I am. And how lucky I am to be here.
Breathless. I want to share it with someone. But I've only got my camera, and my memory. And I suppose that's good enough.
After climbing down, I slept for an hour on the beach, waiting for the ferry.
I am sunburnt, sandy and salty. Muted and exhausted.
I am competing in a poetry slam in 1 hour. My mind is a muddled mess. Where am I going? What is the point of all this? It's just too beautiful for words.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Funky Oriental Beats: My first poetry experience in Auckland
My first poetry reading in Auckland was the Funky Oriental beats, a forum for asian-kiwi poets to express themselves in a free and safe space through hip hop culture. And they completely blew me away. I try not to enter poetry readings with a preconception, but I think at this point, after going to so many, it’s hard not to guess what to expect.
But let’s start at the beginning. I was exhausted when I arrived at the Whammy Bar. I don’t know what hit me, maybe I met Renee Liang finally, who greet me with a HUGE smile. She struck me as a charming, friendly woman, and she was my height, which made me like her even more. A Medical Intern by day, a poet by night. And man, her poetry is fantastic.
In fact, all of the poetry I heard that night was fantastic.
As I set up my camera, a woman with long braided hair and dressed in a beautiful orange dress approached me with a smile and greeted me with a hug. I recognized her instantly. Ishle Park, one of the top poets to come out of the New York scene, the first woman to be named Poet Laureate of Brooklyn. When she spoke, my heart tugged a bit at the familiar sound of her accent. I have spent the last 6 months avoiding anyone who sounds like me, but man, hearing her sounded so deliciously wonderful. She wanted to know the details of my fellowship, and I told her the whole story. At the end of my explanation, she told me I was lucky. I said that I knew it, and that I felt very blessed, then realizing who I was talking to, added quietly “I don’t know why they gave it to me, though, really.” I looked away
“Because you deserve it” I heard her say
I giggled, slightly embarassed. I expected her to laugh with me. But she was quiet. When I looked back at her, she was completely serious. She put her hand on my arm. “You do deserve it.” She repeated, and gave my arm a squeeze.
Later that night, as I saw each poet get up on stage and tell me their stories, I realized that I had for some reason downplayed the weight of my work in my own mind. As I saw Renee performing her iconic poem “Chinglish” about balancing two somewhat opposing cultures in her life while living in Auckland, and Ishle performing a poem about coming to terms with her heritage while growing up in New York, I felt reinvigorated. I remembered why I love spoken word so much. I was no longer an alien in their space. They were sharing their stories with me, and I was able to become a part of it. I was able to understand, just for a moment, their perspective- their every day encounters with innocent prejudice ( strange woman on the street: “oh you speak english very well” poet’s response “I grew up here. You speak english very well also.”) and not so innocent prejudice ( poet’s ex-girlfriend: “we’re breaking up because you’re too asian”). I was honored to be there, and so incredibly happy to be exposed to such honest and inspiring talent.
Later that night, during the drive home, a friend asked me “So were you the only white person there?” Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it. I laughed a bit and said “well, we’re all the same on the inside. On the inside, I could be Asian-Kiwi, I suppose.”
What? I could be.
But let’s start at the beginning. I was exhausted when I arrived at the Whammy Bar. I don’t know what hit me, maybe I met Renee Liang finally, who greet me with a HUGE smile. She struck me as a charming, friendly woman, and she was my height, which made me like her even more. A Medical Intern by day, a poet by night. And man, her poetry is fantastic.
In fact, all of the poetry I heard that night was fantastic.
As I set up my camera, a woman with long braided hair and dressed in a beautiful orange dress approached me with a smile and greeted me with a hug. I recognized her instantly. Ishle Park, one of the top poets to come out of the New York scene, the first woman to be named Poet Laureate of Brooklyn. When she spoke, my heart tugged a bit at the familiar sound of her accent. I have spent the last 6 months avoiding anyone who sounds like me, but man, hearing her sounded so deliciously wonderful. She wanted to know the details of my fellowship, and I told her the whole story. At the end of my explanation, she told me I was lucky. I said that I knew it, and that I felt very blessed, then realizing who I was talking to, added quietly “I don’t know why they gave it to me, though, really.” I looked away
“Because you deserve it” I heard her say
I giggled, slightly embarassed. I expected her to laugh with me. But she was quiet. When I looked back at her, she was completely serious. She put her hand on my arm. “You do deserve it.” She repeated, and gave my arm a squeeze.
Later that night, as I saw each poet get up on stage and tell me their stories, I realized that I had for some reason downplayed the weight of my work in my own mind. As I saw Renee performing her iconic poem “Chinglish” about balancing two somewhat opposing cultures in her life while living in Auckland, and Ishle performing a poem about coming to terms with her heritage while growing up in New York, I felt reinvigorated. I remembered why I love spoken word so much. I was no longer an alien in their space. They were sharing their stories with me, and I was able to become a part of it. I was able to understand, just for a moment, their perspective- their every day encounters with innocent prejudice ( strange woman on the street: “oh you speak english very well” poet’s response “I grew up here. You speak english very well also.”) and not so innocent prejudice ( poet’s ex-girlfriend: “we’re breaking up because you’re too asian”). I was honored to be there, and so incredibly happy to be exposed to such honest and inspiring talent.
Later that night, during the drive home, a friend asked me “So were you the only white person there?” Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it. I laughed a bit and said “well, we’re all the same on the inside. On the inside, I could be Asian-Kiwi, I suppose.”
What? I could be.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Kia ora to Kiwi Land!
Before coming to New Zealand, there were a lot of things I thought of when I thought of New Zealand. Lots of things I’d heard and seen- The All Blacks Rugby team, for example. Maori people with beautiful markings tatooed on their faces. Dense forests. Volcanos. Soft spoken people. But knowing a place in theory is different than knowing a place in reality. And so when my plane began to make its decent onto this strange country covered by a long white cloud, it suddenly dawned on me where I was. Six months away from home, and exactly on the other side of the world. As we flew closer, the water turned from bright blue to light mossy sea green. You know the crayola cran color “Seafoam Grean”? Well I think the person who came up with that title had been to New Zealand. Because that’s the only way I can describe it. The earth was dark, the water sea foam green, the sky an omniscent grey, offset by the lush trees that grew everywhere, with dark brown branches and leaves that were various shades of green- like a gradient on an artist’s palate, growing lighter and lighter as they reached the tips of the dark branches. Hills sprang up from nowhere. Later I was told these out of place clifflike hills were actually dead volcanos, after years and years of dormancy they became accustomed to the surrounding environment. Grass, trees, flowers and houses cover these earthy scabs, and have become only a shadow of their potentially dangerous past.
Its funny how much the earth shares human characteristics.
I was greeted at the airport by a wonderful older woman, with wild red hair and a big big smile. She was a writer, as I would learn in the car, and a poet too. She told me all about her involvement in the Auckland literary scene, and her tumoltuous past fleeing Johannesburg 12 years ago. She explained to me her view of the difference between New Zealand (aka Kiwi) interests and South African interests. Apparently, she had found similar results with poets and audiences in New Zealand as I did in Australia: a general distaste for anything addressing uncomfortable or gruesome realities of others.
As we drove along the coast to her daughter’s house, she pointed out key neighborhoods and streets. At one point I looked out the car window and was astonished to see a dark looming figure rising out of the sea.
It’s form was stereotypically volcanic- black dark soil, strange mossy colored plantlife. Mount Rangitoto- she pointed out to me. Last erupted 600 years ago. It’s been dormant since then.
How did I meet this woman, who generously picked me up to the airport and drove me to her daughter’s house? She was the mother of a friend of a mother of a friend of mine. Yeah, I know. Crazy. And that’s what always gets me: the unbelievable hospitality and generosity I’ve been shown in the past six months. Perhaps its because of the distrustful american mentality I was exposed to as a child, but I never EVER expected people to be this welcoming and caring to me, a strange girl far from home.
Its funny how much the earth shares human characteristics.
I was greeted at the airport by a wonderful older woman, with wild red hair and a big big smile. She was a writer, as I would learn in the car, and a poet too. She told me all about her involvement in the Auckland literary scene, and her tumoltuous past fleeing Johannesburg 12 years ago. She explained to me her view of the difference between New Zealand (aka Kiwi) interests and South African interests. Apparently, she had found similar results with poets and audiences in New Zealand as I did in Australia: a general distaste for anything addressing uncomfortable or gruesome realities of others.
As we drove along the coast to her daughter’s house, she pointed out key neighborhoods and streets. At one point I looked out the car window and was astonished to see a dark looming figure rising out of the sea.
It’s form was stereotypically volcanic- black dark soil, strange mossy colored plantlife. Mount Rangitoto- she pointed out to me. Last erupted 600 years ago. It’s been dormant since then.
How did I meet this woman, who generously picked me up to the airport and drove me to her daughter’s house? She was the mother of a friend of a mother of a friend of mine. Yeah, I know. Crazy. And that’s what always gets me: the unbelievable hospitality and generosity I’ve been shown in the past six months. Perhaps its because of the distrustful american mentality I was exposed to as a child, but I never EVER expected people to be this welcoming and caring to me, a strange girl far from home.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
I dreamt of goodbye
It's funny how you can accomplish things in your dreams, things that don't make much sense, and still have a feeling of resolution when you wake. It's like you had some sort of intense conflict going on in your mind, and you just refused to acknowledge it for so long that it's got to come out some way. So it comes out in a crazy dream, and you and your many selves just battle it out. And you wake up suddenly because a weight has been lifted.
We were on top of a mountain. I had climbed up the mountain via a tiny rickety wooden bridge, so unstable I had to crawl on my hands and knees the whole way. I had my camera strapped to my back. It was windy, and when the wind blew the whole bridge swayed back and forth. And at the top of this bridge and mountain were all my friends. People I've met on this journey, but mostly friends from Hamilton or The Hill School. And so once at the top of the mountain, we were celebrating graduation. One of my friends grabbed my camera and almost threw it off the mountain. I tackled him and stood on his arms. I yelled at him. I revealed every insecurity he had. I told him I was tired of him trying to ruin everything, and that he needed to stop trying to outsmart me because it would never work. I held a mirror in his face and he began to cry. Then he disappeared. Two more of my friends approached me. One took a 20 dollar bill out of his wallet. It was American. The other friend said "Does that make you homesick? It's been nearly 6 months" I took the bill in my hand and looked at it. I felt homesick. I turned to the second friend and said "I need to go to Verona. I have to get my things together" we hugged and I walked down the bridge, this time standing up.
Then I woke up. And when I woke up, I had a poem stuck in my head.
Don't ask me what it means. I don't have a clue. I think it has to do with my acknowledgement that it's time to move on to the next stop on my list. So I leave for Auckland on the 22nd, and i'll return to sydney just briefly for the Night Words Festival and then, as i said in my dream, I'll take a break in Italy for a few days before my crazy european schedule starts.
So it was a strong dream to have and I've spent all day thinking about it. But whatever was resolved, I'm happy it was resolved. Such a strange journey I'm on!
Last night
I dreamt of goodbye
suddenly deciding it was time
to write you out of my life.
Goodbye, perhaps I'll
send you a postcard while
watching the fireflies in
springtime Verona. I'm
sorry because it won't say
I wish you were here.
We were on top of a mountain. I had climbed up the mountain via a tiny rickety wooden bridge, so unstable I had to crawl on my hands and knees the whole way. I had my camera strapped to my back. It was windy, and when the wind blew the whole bridge swayed back and forth. And at the top of this bridge and mountain were all my friends. People I've met on this journey, but mostly friends from Hamilton or The Hill School. And so once at the top of the mountain, we were celebrating graduation. One of my friends grabbed my camera and almost threw it off the mountain. I tackled him and stood on his arms. I yelled at him. I revealed every insecurity he had. I told him I was tired of him trying to ruin everything, and that he needed to stop trying to outsmart me because it would never work. I held a mirror in his face and he began to cry. Then he disappeared. Two more of my friends approached me. One took a 20 dollar bill out of his wallet. It was American. The other friend said "Does that make you homesick? It's been nearly 6 months" I took the bill in my hand and looked at it. I felt homesick. I turned to the second friend and said "I need to go to Verona. I have to get my things together" we hugged and I walked down the bridge, this time standing up.
Then I woke up. And when I woke up, I had a poem stuck in my head.
Don't ask me what it means. I don't have a clue. I think it has to do with my acknowledgement that it's time to move on to the next stop on my list. So I leave for Auckland on the 22nd, and i'll return to sydney just briefly for the Night Words Festival and then, as i said in my dream, I'll take a break in Italy for a few days before my crazy european schedule starts.
So it was a strong dream to have and I've spent all day thinking about it. But whatever was resolved, I'm happy it was resolved. Such a strange journey I'm on!
Last night
I dreamt of goodbye
suddenly deciding it was time
to write you out of my life.
Goodbye, perhaps I'll
send you a postcard while
watching the fireflies in
springtime Verona. I'm
sorry because it won't say
I wish you were here.
Kangaroos, Wallabies and Wombats- Oh my! (pictures coming soon)
So after being in Australia for nearly two months, my lovely Melbourne guides were appalled to find that I haven't seen or done many "Aussie" things (other than trying vegemite.... an experience of it's own degree). So Saturday night, after a long day of filming, we drove to Frankston, a suburb of Melbourne. Once in Frankston, my mission of experiencing the real Australia came in the form of a Mars bar. Let's clarify: a deep fried Mars bar. As someone who loathes anything ridiculously sugary and tries to steer clear of anything deep fried, this sounded like a disaster in a greasy paper bag. And, honestly, it was. But I had already given Vegemite a go, so I figured nothing could be worse than that. And so I took a bite. And in a weird way, I was transported, momentarily, back to mexico. And now I can tell you with full honesty that a deep fried Mars bar tastes a bit like what a churro (a fried stick of dough sprinkled with sugar and dipped in chocolate) would taste like if it were somehow inverted and mixed with caramel. And it was surprisingly delicious.
The next day we woke up early and drove to Phillip Island, a nature reserve a small trek away from Frankston. We arrived at a nature park that has it's share of cute and fuzzy australian wildlife (think koalas, kangaroos, wallabies and wombats) and not so fuzzy australian wildlife (think king brown snakes, pythons and other deadly creatures). But the cute and cuddly ones were let loose about the park, and we were permitted to feed anything that hopped, waddled or crawled it's way towards us.
We took a lunch break in town, and had the classic "fish and chips" which later I learned that we weren't eating fish at all, but rather shark. We got the family packet of fish and chips, which was supposidly for a family of 4 but it could've fed many many more... and of course the three of us managed to eat it all.
We wandered to the beach for a bit, before heading back to a nature park where we lined up to see the world famous "Penguin Parade" (Yeah, I didn't know Australia had penguins either...).
All in all, it was a day of cute cuddliness and deep fried food. I slept the entire way back to Melbourne.
The next day we woke up early and drove to Phillip Island, a nature reserve a small trek away from Frankston. We arrived at a nature park that has it's share of cute and fuzzy australian wildlife (think koalas, kangaroos, wallabies and wombats) and not so fuzzy australian wildlife (think king brown snakes, pythons and other deadly creatures). But the cute and cuddly ones were let loose about the park, and we were permitted to feed anything that hopped, waddled or crawled it's way towards us.
We took a lunch break in town, and had the classic "fish and chips" which later I learned that we weren't eating fish at all, but rather shark. We got the family packet of fish and chips, which was supposidly for a family of 4 but it could've fed many many more... and of course the three of us managed to eat it all.
We wandered to the beach for a bit, before heading back to a nature park where we lined up to see the world famous "Penguin Parade" (Yeah, I didn't know Australia had penguins either...).
All in all, it was a day of cute cuddliness and deep fried food. I slept the entire way back to Melbourne.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
No Love for Love
So it's Valentines Day here in Melbourne. I've always considered Valentines day to be manufactured by the chocolate companies, feeding off of the romantic impulses of couples in westernized socieites, but maybe it's because I'm single. :)
Here is a Wikapedia version of the Golden Legend of St. Valentine:
The Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragine, compiled about 1260 and one of the most-read books of the High Middle Ages, gives sufficient details of the saints for each day of the liturgical year to inspire a homily on each occasion. The very brief vita of St Valentine has him refusing to deny Christ before the "Emperor Claudius"[18] in the year 280. Before his head was cut off, this Valentine restored sight and hearing to the daughter of his jailer. Jacobus makes a play with the etymology of "Valentine", "as containing valour"
So it seems that all this love-stuffs that are marketed towards the masses on this day, are actually the wrong kind of love. Maybe it should be more about loving our enemies, loving humanity and loving life more than buying our boyfriends and girlfriends some chocolate.
Although, I have to admit, my favorite part of Valentine's day is the day after: massive sales on chocolate.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Here is a Wikapedia version of the Golden Legend of St. Valentine:
The Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragine, compiled about 1260 and one of the most-read books of the High Middle Ages, gives sufficient details of the saints for each day of the liturgical year to inspire a homily on each occasion. The very brief vita of St Valentine has him refusing to deny Christ before the "Emperor Claudius"[18] in the year 280. Before his head was cut off, this Valentine restored sight and hearing to the daughter of his jailer. Jacobus makes a play with the etymology of "Valentine", "as containing valour"
So it seems that all this love-stuffs that are marketed towards the masses on this day, are actually the wrong kind of love. Maybe it should be more about loving our enemies, loving humanity and loving life more than buying our boyfriends and girlfriends some chocolate.
Although, I have to admit, my favorite part of Valentine's day is the day after: massive sales on chocolate.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Raw and New Piece
Inspired by a girl I never met, but heard a lot about. It's still a bit raw, seeing as I wrote it on the train this morning.
"Wake up, Pretty Girl"
The last time you looked at the night sky
You wished you were a falling star
And never told anyone.
You were seven.
Now thirteen years later
The only type of astrological reading you get
Is from a magazine.
Last night you had dinner bought and paid for by that friendly waiter you flirt with.
You know, the one with the blue eyes.
Perhaps it was that new perfume you bought
Or your new dress
No it was your shoes, definitely the shoes.
Had to be, the shoes.
There are more than 200 things an intellegent girl can do with her free time
Read a book, write an essay, learn a language,
Paint a picture, volunteer at a hospital, tutor children.
But you like to converse with your stuffed animals
Straighten your hair, ponder the complexity of Justin Timberlake’s dance moves.
I mean, how does he do it and sing at the same time?
Maybe its because you’ve always gotten what you wanted with a smile.
And the only time you spend by yourself is before you’ve got your lipstick on.
But this morning you walked back to your apartment
After a long night of partying and
The only sound you heard was the click click clicking of your shoes
On the abandoned pre-dawn pavement.
And it gave you time to think
Just for a moment
What it’s like to be alone.
You push you push
You push these thoughts out of your head.
Like anything that causes you to question
Is poison and anything that causes introspection
Is an inaccurate reflection of your beaming exterior
Wake up, pretty girl.
We both know there’s been more that you’ve been concealing than freckles.
They’ve bought and sold your body
As real estate to the master race
Because who needs genocide when you’ll pay them for it.
Beneath your designer dress beats the heart of a vacant woman
who has yet to fill herself full with purpose.
And within your shoes are feet that have forgotten the feeling
Of soles pressed up against the earth.
Time’s running out,
And no amount of wide pouting or flirting will buy you these years back.
Maybe tomorrow, you’ll write a letter to your future self
In purple sparkly ink and explain
What happened to the past 13 years.
And what you hope will happen between now and when you open this letter
In 13 more years.
You’ll dot the i's with hearts to cover the shake in your script.
You’ll sign it with a smilie face and splash with perfume.
Sealed with a kiss.
Maybe tomorrow night, you’ll open your magazine
And your astrological reading will only say:
"Go outside.
Look up."
"Wake up, Pretty Girl"
The last time you looked at the night sky
You wished you were a falling star
And never told anyone.
You were seven.
Now thirteen years later
The only type of astrological reading you get
Is from a magazine.
Last night you had dinner bought and paid for by that friendly waiter you flirt with.
You know, the one with the blue eyes.
Perhaps it was that new perfume you bought
Or your new dress
No it was your shoes, definitely the shoes.
Had to be, the shoes.
There are more than 200 things an intellegent girl can do with her free time
Read a book, write an essay, learn a language,
Paint a picture, volunteer at a hospital, tutor children.
But you like to converse with your stuffed animals
Straighten your hair, ponder the complexity of Justin Timberlake’s dance moves.
I mean, how does he do it and sing at the same time?
Maybe its because you’ve always gotten what you wanted with a smile.
And the only time you spend by yourself is before you’ve got your lipstick on.
But this morning you walked back to your apartment
After a long night of partying and
The only sound you heard was the click click clicking of your shoes
On the abandoned pre-dawn pavement.
And it gave you time to think
Just for a moment
What it’s like to be alone.
You push you push
You push these thoughts out of your head.
Like anything that causes you to question
Is poison and anything that causes introspection
Is an inaccurate reflection of your beaming exterior
Wake up, pretty girl.
We both know there’s been more that you’ve been concealing than freckles.
They’ve bought and sold your body
As real estate to the master race
Because who needs genocide when you’ll pay them for it.
Beneath your designer dress beats the heart of a vacant woman
who has yet to fill herself full with purpose.
And within your shoes are feet that have forgotten the feeling
Of soles pressed up against the earth.
Time’s running out,
And no amount of wide pouting or flirting will buy you these years back.
Maybe tomorrow, you’ll write a letter to your future self
In purple sparkly ink and explain
What happened to the past 13 years.
And what you hope will happen between now and when you open this letter
In 13 more years.
You’ll dot the i's with hearts to cover the shake in your script.
You’ll sign it with a smilie face and splash with perfume.
Sealed with a kiss.
Maybe tomorrow night, you’ll open your magazine
And your astrological reading will only say:
"Go outside.
Look up."
Fall in Melbourne
I stepped out the door of my friend’s suburban Melbourne home and was filled with a sense of familiarity and excitement. “It smells like fall!” I exclaimed as I stumbled down the steps. She turned and looked at me strangely.
“Fall? Oh you mean autumn.”
But I wasn’t listening; I was on a long rant about halloween, pumpkin pie and upstate new york leaves. “They turn every shade of orange imaginable! And they cover the ground and the sky and it seems like you’re walking through small mountains of crunchy flames. Ohhh and the pumpkin pie- have you ever had pumpkin pie?….”
Its strange to think I’ve gone a whole year without experiencing fall or winter. Had you asked me a year ago, I would’ve been excited about it, especially missing winter. I’ve never been a fan of cold weather, and up until now I had always imagined myself living in some tropical climate, as far away from the snowy land scapes of New England as possible. But small things now, like the smell of crisp cold air in the morning, bring me home.
I spent the day wandering around the artsy east-melbourne district of Fitzroy. I headed there in the early afternoon to a radio station, to meet a personality who runs a show devoted totally to spoken word. I was ushered into the green room, and struck up a conversation with a few people there. They were all poets too. I busily wrote down names, numbers, emails, gig dates, venues and addresses. This will be a busy week!
A few people from New Zealand who I met at the radio station and I went out for pizza at an artsy restaurant with an amazing deal! An entire personal pizza for 4 dollars! The restaurant was filled with large cushiony couches from a variety of styles. The walls were painted a golden yellow. There were high contrast pictures of H.H. The Dalai Lama and and peace flags hanging from the ceiling. Rugs were draped from the roof, and shoes superglued up the wall. My kind of place.
I wandered for the rest of the day up and down Brunswick street, weaving in and out of bookstores, cafes, used clothing stores, artsy boutique shoe stores and record shops. Later that night, I met up with Joey (Crazy Elf) and Li and we headed over to a small bar for my first exposure to Melbourne poetry.
It was exactly as I thought it would be. Though I could only stay for a few hours, the poetry I witnessed was incredible. But perhaps the most delicious and unexpected work was by a poet from Auckland, NZ, who I had lunch with earier that day. Not only was his poetry superior to most that I've heard in recent months, his delivery and performance style was engaging and entertaining- despite reading off the page! Typically, after 3 minutes of even the most beautiful poetry, my mind begins to wander. But not with this poet. Most of his poems were 3 minutes or longer, and I was engaged and awestruck for the entire piece, eating up every word and wanting more. So, not only am I absolutely thrilled to be in Melbourne, I'm really looking forward to exploring the Auckland scene, starting late next week!
“Fall? Oh you mean autumn.”
But I wasn’t listening; I was on a long rant about halloween, pumpkin pie and upstate new york leaves. “They turn every shade of orange imaginable! And they cover the ground and the sky and it seems like you’re walking through small mountains of crunchy flames. Ohhh and the pumpkin pie- have you ever had pumpkin pie?….”
Its strange to think I’ve gone a whole year without experiencing fall or winter. Had you asked me a year ago, I would’ve been excited about it, especially missing winter. I’ve never been a fan of cold weather, and up until now I had always imagined myself living in some tropical climate, as far away from the snowy land scapes of New England as possible. But small things now, like the smell of crisp cold air in the morning, bring me home.
I spent the day wandering around the artsy east-melbourne district of Fitzroy. I headed there in the early afternoon to a radio station, to meet a personality who runs a show devoted totally to spoken word. I was ushered into the green room, and struck up a conversation with a few people there. They were all poets too. I busily wrote down names, numbers, emails, gig dates, venues and addresses. This will be a busy week!
A few people from New Zealand who I met at the radio station and I went out for pizza at an artsy restaurant with an amazing deal! An entire personal pizza for 4 dollars! The restaurant was filled with large cushiony couches from a variety of styles. The walls were painted a golden yellow. There were high contrast pictures of H.H. The Dalai Lama and and peace flags hanging from the ceiling. Rugs were draped from the roof, and shoes superglued up the wall. My kind of place.
I wandered for the rest of the day up and down Brunswick street, weaving in and out of bookstores, cafes, used clothing stores, artsy boutique shoe stores and record shops. Later that night, I met up with Joey (Crazy Elf) and Li and we headed over to a small bar for my first exposure to Melbourne poetry.
It was exactly as I thought it would be. Though I could only stay for a few hours, the poetry I witnessed was incredible. But perhaps the most delicious and unexpected work was by a poet from Auckland, NZ, who I had lunch with earier that day. Not only was his poetry superior to most that I've heard in recent months, his delivery and performance style was engaging and entertaining- despite reading off the page! Typically, after 3 minutes of even the most beautiful poetry, my mind begins to wander. But not with this poet. Most of his poems were 3 minutes or longer, and I was engaged and awestruck for the entire piece, eating up every word and wanting more. So, not only am I absolutely thrilled to be in Melbourne, I'm really looking forward to exploring the Auckland scene, starting late next week!
Monday, February 11, 2008
travel addictions
It was then, when I climbed aboard a tiny plane at 9:15pm in Sydney, that everything began to melt away. There's something really comforting about airplanes. All the stresses and anxieties, all the conversations from the night before, everything begins to get turned down. The white noise of the cabin drowns out the noise in my head. And all those people I met, all the stories I've lived, all the encounters and conversations, are all transformed into sparkling lights below and behind me. They're turned into what they are meant to be, I suppose: memories. Things to look back on that seem so real so tangible right now, but every day become more storybook than reality. Situations begin to get blurry, and the contrast turned up really high, like a hand drawn cartoon from the 1970s, inexact, shakey but entertaining.
So with these thoughts and more, I departed Sydney, the location of my blatanly painful impermanence for the past two months. It's a city now full of memories for me, and they are bittersweet memories at that. Fragile and beautiful moment shared with people who, if things were only different, could be fixed personalities in my life. It's always sad to say goodbye. But the plane ride is a bandaid for those wounds, and the scars are always a good story.
When I arrived in Melbourne, I was greeted almost immediately by Li and Joey (aka Crazy Elf). Li was arguing with him about something and I had to stand there waving at them to get their attention for about 2 minutes. The car ride into the city was full of goofy 80's music and laughter, and a ridiculous story about the dangerous creatures called "Drop Bears" which, according to Li, fall out of trees and kill people. "that's why you have to wear a helmet when you're walking in the forest." She explained.
They don't actually exist, of course.
So within the first 5 minutes of my arrival to Melbourne, it was already clear to me that this is going to be one heck of a city. I spent the morning wandering around the CBD, weaving in and out of used bookstores, vintage clothing shops and making note of the locations of stereotypical tourist spots (note: must visit the art museum and cathedral). The streets are filled with college-y types reminiscent of beloved east coast american cities (guys with spikey hair and crazy oversized sunglasses, girls with brightly colored bags and shoes), businesspeople bustling about, old women weighted down with bags asking me (moi?!) for directions to shopping malls, young people chattering away in languages I don't understand, with the occasional english slang word thrown in.
This ain't no disco. It ain't Sydney either. I'm embracing the change. As Allan Watts would say, I'm joining the dance. And man, it's been a long time coming.
So with these thoughts and more, I departed Sydney, the location of my blatanly painful impermanence for the past two months. It's a city now full of memories for me, and they are bittersweet memories at that. Fragile and beautiful moment shared with people who, if things were only different, could be fixed personalities in my life. It's always sad to say goodbye. But the plane ride is a bandaid for those wounds, and the scars are always a good story.
When I arrived in Melbourne, I was greeted almost immediately by Li and Joey (aka Crazy Elf). Li was arguing with him about something and I had to stand there waving at them to get their attention for about 2 minutes. The car ride into the city was full of goofy 80's music and laughter, and a ridiculous story about the dangerous creatures called "Drop Bears" which, according to Li, fall out of trees and kill people. "that's why you have to wear a helmet when you're walking in the forest." She explained.
They don't actually exist, of course.
So within the first 5 minutes of my arrival to Melbourne, it was already clear to me that this is going to be one heck of a city. I spent the morning wandering around the CBD, weaving in and out of used bookstores, vintage clothing shops and making note of the locations of stereotypical tourist spots (note: must visit the art museum and cathedral). The streets are filled with college-y types reminiscent of beloved east coast american cities (guys with spikey hair and crazy oversized sunglasses, girls with brightly colored bags and shoes), businesspeople bustling about, old women weighted down with bags asking me (moi?!) for directions to shopping malls, young people chattering away in languages I don't understand, with the occasional english slang word thrown in.
This ain't no disco. It ain't Sydney either. I'm embracing the change. As Allan Watts would say, I'm joining the dance. And man, it's been a long time coming.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Oh that's why....
I don't know if it's divine retribution, universal interferance or simply just good luck. But lately I recall something my uncle told me some years back, over breakfast in some deliciously New York cafe. He said that when we want something enough, and send clear enough signals to the universe, the universe will respond by not only pushing you down the right path, but opening the doors for you along the way. It's by no means a direct quotation, but it's certainly something that's stuck with me thus far. I think there's a mistake I keep making (if you can even make mistakes on a trip like this... which I'm not sure you can), and it's that I'm waiting for some kind of sign or feeling to push me along that path, you know, that path i'm *supposed* to take. But it doesn't really work like that. I think it's almost like, in order for things to fall into place, you need to plan first.
And so I booked a flight to Melbourne. It's time, sadly to say goodbye to Sydney. I ignored the itchy feeling long enough for it to turn into panic episodes. Enough's enough. I will go to Melbourne. And then I booked a flight to Auckland, and started my research once more into global spoken word groups.The response emails came back pretty rapidly, and I'm happy to report that in both cases, although the dates were chosen completely at random, they are the perfect dates to go to each city.
And so, the familiar bittersweet feeling of leaving a beautiful place with beautiful people is now upon me, and although it's a bit painful (like scratching a mosquito bite) at this point, anything is better than those anxiety episodes I was dealing with before. And hopefully this is not the end of my Sydney experience. Unless I get a marriage proposal from some prince or fall into a bottomless hole, or some amazing undeniable opportunity is thrust in my direction, I will be back in Sydney once more for The Night Words Festival at the Sydney Opera House Studio. I've been interning with Word Travels, sending out emails, press releases and helping put together programs and whatever else needs to be done but would take too much time for a normal person with- you know- a life to do.
As I've mentioned in the previous post, it's been great fun hanging out with Miles and seeing the inner-workings of this project, and it's really made me think again about the path I'm on. I am glad that I didn't apply to graduate school just yet. I love psychology and I could see myself doing that for the rest of my life, but there's another side to me, a side that is somewhat related but in a different capacity than a PhD could get me. That side loves to organize cultural and artistic events. Especially ones with social and even political implications. Using the arts to bring people together, people who normally would rather shoot eachother than be in the same room with one another, that's a worthwhile job. In one email I recently sent out, I was told to bring up the "importance of events like the Public's Poem and The Night Words Festival". So I did a little research. Australia Day, though celebrated mostly like our 4th of July in the states, is a day wrapped in a bit of contraversy. Often days that preach "patriotism" tend to end up forums for hateful racist thoughts, words or actions. Just last year, for example, there were race related riots in Cronulla, a suburb in South Sydney. This year I had the pleasure of working at a station of the Public's Poem at a "Survival Day" concert in Victoria Park. And earlier this week, I had the interesting, yet somewhat tedious task of going through over 400 lines of poetry, each one written by a different person about "what it means to be australian", And though at first it just looked like an incoherent jumble of phrases, it later melted into a really huge poem that not only spoke of being australian, but literally *showed* what being australian really means. So there we were, one year after violent race related riots, and people from different races and perspectives were using poetry as a tool to unite themselves.
But I'm off on a tangent now. Where once it just seemed like a chance encounter to work with Miles and Word Travels on these events, now I'm noticing the impact they are having on me and my vision of myself and the future. I'm not saying every experience I have is a world-altering, eye-opening amazing experience. That's just being naive. But I will say that every experience most certainly is a life-changing one. Because every small decision and movement is a ripple, and it gets bigger and bigger and bigger. And I guess I was just afraid of causing the wrong kind of ripples, or maybe too many. But I'm starting to realize that there is no wrong kind of ripple, and really, if there's one thing I love doing, it's making waves.
And so I booked a flight to Melbourne. It's time, sadly to say goodbye to Sydney. I ignored the itchy feeling long enough for it to turn into panic episodes. Enough's enough. I will go to Melbourne. And then I booked a flight to Auckland, and started my research once more into global spoken word groups.The response emails came back pretty rapidly, and I'm happy to report that in both cases, although the dates were chosen completely at random, they are the perfect dates to go to each city.
And so, the familiar bittersweet feeling of leaving a beautiful place with beautiful people is now upon me, and although it's a bit painful (like scratching a mosquito bite) at this point, anything is better than those anxiety episodes I was dealing with before. And hopefully this is not the end of my Sydney experience. Unless I get a marriage proposal from some prince or fall into a bottomless hole, or some amazing undeniable opportunity is thrust in my direction, I will be back in Sydney once more for The Night Words Festival at the Sydney Opera House Studio. I've been interning with Word Travels, sending out emails, press releases and helping put together programs and whatever else needs to be done but would take too much time for a normal person with- you know- a life to do.
As I've mentioned in the previous post, it's been great fun hanging out with Miles and seeing the inner-workings of this project, and it's really made me think again about the path I'm on. I am glad that I didn't apply to graduate school just yet. I love psychology and I could see myself doing that for the rest of my life, but there's another side to me, a side that is somewhat related but in a different capacity than a PhD could get me. That side loves to organize cultural and artistic events. Especially ones with social and even political implications. Using the arts to bring people together, people who normally would rather shoot eachother than be in the same room with one another, that's a worthwhile job. In one email I recently sent out, I was told to bring up the "importance of events like the Public's Poem and The Night Words Festival". So I did a little research. Australia Day, though celebrated mostly like our 4th of July in the states, is a day wrapped in a bit of contraversy. Often days that preach "patriotism" tend to end up forums for hateful racist thoughts, words or actions. Just last year, for example, there were race related riots in Cronulla, a suburb in South Sydney. This year I had the pleasure of working at a station of the Public's Poem at a "Survival Day" concert in Victoria Park. And earlier this week, I had the interesting, yet somewhat tedious task of going through over 400 lines of poetry, each one written by a different person about "what it means to be australian", And though at first it just looked like an incoherent jumble of phrases, it later melted into a really huge poem that not only spoke of being australian, but literally *showed* what being australian really means. So there we were, one year after violent race related riots, and people from different races and perspectives were using poetry as a tool to unite themselves.
But I'm off on a tangent now. Where once it just seemed like a chance encounter to work with Miles and Word Travels on these events, now I'm noticing the impact they are having on me and my vision of myself and the future. I'm not saying every experience I have is a world-altering, eye-opening amazing experience. That's just being naive. But I will say that every experience most certainly is a life-changing one. Because every small decision and movement is a ripple, and it gets bigger and bigger and bigger. And I guess I was just afraid of causing the wrong kind of ripples, or maybe too many. But I'm starting to realize that there is no wrong kind of ripple, and really, if there's one thing I love doing, it's making waves.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The FAE and roller coasters
So after a few weeks of a vacation of sorts, my spoken word adventure is back in action, and things are, dare I say, back on track. After a few emotional set backs which have yet to prove themselves more useful (because, hey, as Taylor Mali says, "if it ain't broke, it don't need fiction!") than painful and depressing, I think things are finally starting to look up. By sticking it out and fighting off my instincts to just pack up and run away from my problems, I think I"m growing a lot. After all, hearts are muscles too, and when they've been over worked or stretched to a limit, they ache. But that's always a sign of building strength. And maybe I could use a more inner strength, who knows. Then again, dropping everything and flying to spain sounds absolutely delicious right now... hmm....
Anyway, I’ve had the unique and great opportunity to be spending a lot of time with poet Miles Merrill the past few days, and assisting him in the somewhat daunting task of planning australia’s first festival dedicated soley to spoken word. But for those of you who know me, and possibly those who don’t, there is no event organizational task too daunting for me. Give me a mountain of press releases and by god I will get through them all. Which is a great attitude to have at the moment, considering I do have a mountain of emails and press releases to send. But it’s a great cause and also really interesting work for me to be doing. I’ve been craving some activity like this, to help out organizing something in a fundamental way, even if it is basic intern stuff. Because from my own past in events organizing, I’ve realized that without people to help do the crappy intern work, nothing would get done.
After a hard days work staring at a computer screen all day, we went out to an pub. Its really great hanging out with another american, especially another american with a global sense of self like mine (an american but-“well, not really”- american, just like me), because I can explain to him my questions and concerns about understanding poetry in this new culture. Because don’t think for a second australia is like anything I’ve seen before. And it’s vast differences had been, perhaps, for the first time most blatantly revealed to me at the slam last Tuesday.
Traveling around the world as an American in these times is a strange experience. You’d think it wouldn’t be so much of an issue, hoping that people are both educated and mature enough not to judge someone based off of an accent or a passport. But as we all know, sadly, this is not true. I’ve met people here who have refused to talk to me once they hear my accent. I’ve had people act differently or misinterpret my behavior, just because of where I’m from. Even amongst friends, in just the past few weeks, I’ve had the “fact” brought up to me numerous times about how “all americans are fat, lazy and stupid”. Putting the simple asinine nature of this comment aside (ie: I don’t think someone like, oh, Thomas Jefferson or Malcom X or Emma Goldman would appreciate those comments), to make such a sweeping generalization of a culture that one has only known through news media and movies is both disgusting and sad. But as quick as everyone seems to be to point out all the “fat lazy americans” no one wants to turn the mirror on themselves (I am referring to the fact that australia is right in a close second place for the most obeise population). And so, it is the fundamental attribution error at work, the error that almost every human suffers from on a daily basis- the mistake in pointing out the faults in others and attributing them to a personality flaw, and refusing to see the own faults in ourselves.
I guess it would be best to start with the events of the night of the slam. And no, this is not a “woe is me, I got an average of 5.5 score or whatever” story. Because, as I previously noted, I really don’t care about scores. I had the pleasure of being interviewed for some radio program here in sydney. The reporter wanted to know all about my trip around the world, and what I’ve found so far. What are the differences between spoken word scenes? And so I emphasized my findings between Mexico and Canada- sure there are differences, but there are similarities too. Like who would’ve thought that a country like Mexico and a country like Canada would have such similar thematic elements? But the reporter, of course, wanted to know what I thought of the Australian poetry scene, and how that fit in with my pattern (it doesn’t). It’s difficult, you see, to really examine a scene while you’re immersed in it. And of course, it’s almost impossible to generalize. But to do exactly that, I’ve noted some amazing poetry, amazing theatrical elements with bits of comedy or a great love story thrown in, and –unlike canada or mexico- a general aversion to anything political.
Is that a reflection of Australian society? To be honest, I have no idea. I will be the first to admit that I have not worked hard enough to understand this culture to make a statement like that. Working that hard would involve years and years of field experience. But what I will tell you is a story about my experience as an outsider in this society, an experience that followed this interview on Tuesday night that made me think long and hard about who I am and where I come from, and how that’s shaped the type of person I am.
We were walking along a dark street corner in a working class neighborhood, just after the slam. The people in front of me brushed past a woman with darker skin, obviously drunk, and she fell to the ground. Everyone I was with kept walking, without even looking back. But I looked back. I don’t know why I stopped, she didn’t cry out. But there she was, back flat on the street, arms flung out on the wet ground. So I helped her up. It took about 3 minutes for me to even help her get into a seated position (she was that inebriated) but after seeing her all sprawled out like that, I couldn’t just leave her. And so I helped her get her bearings, told her to be careful and have a good night, and caught up to the 4 other people, all staring at me like I was a lunatic. “People like that can’t be helped” said one of them. “She was perfectly capable of helping herself back up.” Said another. “she has no self respect” Comment after comment, attributing her alcoholism to a personality defect instead of, what seems obvious to me to be a reaction to being a marginalized character in society. Of course she has no self respect- she’s been raised in a culture that hates her, has taught her to hate herself and she wants to die. But it doesn’t mean that she is a bad person and that she deserves to be treated like a dog. But all that aside, even if you’re a white full blooded australian male, don’t you get drunk sometimes and fall over? And if I saw a white full blooded australiam male sprawled out on the street , or even in a bar or even anywhere where he needed help, I’d help him. Because that’s the human thing to do. And I’ll tell you one thing for sure, if that woman who fell was white, people would’ve raced to help her. But because she was a stereotype, because she was marginalized and “typical” for someone “like her”, it somehow becomes acceptable for people to just roll their eyes and walk away.
I guess it just really bothered me, it’s been bothering me until I spoke to Miles about it. It’s good to have another american here who has been here way longer and can explain things like this to me. Why do people just stereotype and move on, saying “oh no there’s no problem, except for THOSE people. If it weren’t for THOSE people things would be fine. But there’s nothing we can do about THOSE people”? Even though we all know that’s not true, that there are many current social issues that effect all people in this country, including the social issue of aboriginal rights and cultural genocide. I can ask miles these questions and he can throw them back at me. It helps me put it in perspective, so I myself don’t commit the FAE. And so I’ve thought about it and come to the conclusion that those people I was with aren’t bad people just because they didn’t help her. Perhaps they too are just a product of what they’ve been exposed to. It’s all about society. It’s all about what they’ve been taught in schools, what they see on tv and their own personal experiences. And of course, there are the exceptions. The lovely beloved exceptions to every observation. The exceptions that I hope aren’t actually exceptions but the rule, that perhaps I’ve just been exposed to a slightly embittered side of sydney culture, and that maybe there are more people who are aware than those I’ve met thus far. I do not know, but I hope this is true.
So what’s this all got to do with poetry? I’ve been spending a lot of time with miles, typing up the “People’s poem” , the world’s largest poem written by random people of australia. And man, the FAE is silly. It’s really silly. There are a lot of silly, light hearted, somewhat ridiculous lines in that People’s Poem. There are also so many burdened and painful lines (mostly the ones written at the Australia/Survival day concert… written by aboriginal peoples or their allies). But most of all, there are some lines that haunt me. The ones about tolerance, and not just stereotypical “love everyone” hippy-dippy stuff. I’m talking about lines that put up a fight with words, lines that aren’t angry or embittered or loving, just educated and aware. Lines that are well thought out and beautifully carved like a big bold sign “thou shalt not kill” (because we all know there’s more than one way to kill a person). Yes, a line of poetry can do a lot of things. Just one line can change the whole tone of the piece, and open a “fat lazy stupid” american girl’s eyes to the deeper issues plaguing this society, issues so deep that no one will talk about them, and no one wants to hear about them. Issues so deep that they’re allowed to be flung out on dark wet streets, back flat against wet pavement. Yes, I’ve learned that just one line of poetry can push back.
Anyway, I’ve had the unique and great opportunity to be spending a lot of time with poet Miles Merrill the past few days, and assisting him in the somewhat daunting task of planning australia’s first festival dedicated soley to spoken word. But for those of you who know me, and possibly those who don’t, there is no event organizational task too daunting for me. Give me a mountain of press releases and by god I will get through them all. Which is a great attitude to have at the moment, considering I do have a mountain of emails and press releases to send. But it’s a great cause and also really interesting work for me to be doing. I’ve been craving some activity like this, to help out organizing something in a fundamental way, even if it is basic intern stuff. Because from my own past in events organizing, I’ve realized that without people to help do the crappy intern work, nothing would get done.
After a hard days work staring at a computer screen all day, we went out to an pub. Its really great hanging out with another american, especially another american with a global sense of self like mine (an american but-“well, not really”- american, just like me), because I can explain to him my questions and concerns about understanding poetry in this new culture. Because don’t think for a second australia is like anything I’ve seen before. And it’s vast differences had been, perhaps, for the first time most blatantly revealed to me at the slam last Tuesday.
Traveling around the world as an American in these times is a strange experience. You’d think it wouldn’t be so much of an issue, hoping that people are both educated and mature enough not to judge someone based off of an accent or a passport. But as we all know, sadly, this is not true. I’ve met people here who have refused to talk to me once they hear my accent. I’ve had people act differently or misinterpret my behavior, just because of where I’m from. Even amongst friends, in just the past few weeks, I’ve had the “fact” brought up to me numerous times about how “all americans are fat, lazy and stupid”. Putting the simple asinine nature of this comment aside (ie: I don’t think someone like, oh, Thomas Jefferson or Malcom X or Emma Goldman would appreciate those comments), to make such a sweeping generalization of a culture that one has only known through news media and movies is both disgusting and sad. But as quick as everyone seems to be to point out all the “fat lazy americans” no one wants to turn the mirror on themselves (I am referring to the fact that australia is right in a close second place for the most obeise population). And so, it is the fundamental attribution error at work, the error that almost every human suffers from on a daily basis- the mistake in pointing out the faults in others and attributing them to a personality flaw, and refusing to see the own faults in ourselves.
I guess it would be best to start with the events of the night of the slam. And no, this is not a “woe is me, I got an average of 5.5 score or whatever” story. Because, as I previously noted, I really don’t care about scores. I had the pleasure of being interviewed for some radio program here in sydney. The reporter wanted to know all about my trip around the world, and what I’ve found so far. What are the differences between spoken word scenes? And so I emphasized my findings between Mexico and Canada- sure there are differences, but there are similarities too. Like who would’ve thought that a country like Mexico and a country like Canada would have such similar thematic elements? But the reporter, of course, wanted to know what I thought of the Australian poetry scene, and how that fit in with my pattern (it doesn’t). It’s difficult, you see, to really examine a scene while you’re immersed in it. And of course, it’s almost impossible to generalize. But to do exactly that, I’ve noted some amazing poetry, amazing theatrical elements with bits of comedy or a great love story thrown in, and –unlike canada or mexico- a general aversion to anything political.
Is that a reflection of Australian society? To be honest, I have no idea. I will be the first to admit that I have not worked hard enough to understand this culture to make a statement like that. Working that hard would involve years and years of field experience. But what I will tell you is a story about my experience as an outsider in this society, an experience that followed this interview on Tuesday night that made me think long and hard about who I am and where I come from, and how that’s shaped the type of person I am.
We were walking along a dark street corner in a working class neighborhood, just after the slam. The people in front of me brushed past a woman with darker skin, obviously drunk, and she fell to the ground. Everyone I was with kept walking, without even looking back. But I looked back. I don’t know why I stopped, she didn’t cry out. But there she was, back flat on the street, arms flung out on the wet ground. So I helped her up. It took about 3 minutes for me to even help her get into a seated position (she was that inebriated) but after seeing her all sprawled out like that, I couldn’t just leave her. And so I helped her get her bearings, told her to be careful and have a good night, and caught up to the 4 other people, all staring at me like I was a lunatic. “People like that can’t be helped” said one of them. “She was perfectly capable of helping herself back up.” Said another. “she has no self respect” Comment after comment, attributing her alcoholism to a personality defect instead of, what seems obvious to me to be a reaction to being a marginalized character in society. Of course she has no self respect- she’s been raised in a culture that hates her, has taught her to hate herself and she wants to die. But it doesn’t mean that she is a bad person and that she deserves to be treated like a dog. But all that aside, even if you’re a white full blooded australian male, don’t you get drunk sometimes and fall over? And if I saw a white full blooded australiam male sprawled out on the street , or even in a bar or even anywhere where he needed help, I’d help him. Because that’s the human thing to do. And I’ll tell you one thing for sure, if that woman who fell was white, people would’ve raced to help her. But because she was a stereotype, because she was marginalized and “typical” for someone “like her”, it somehow becomes acceptable for people to just roll their eyes and walk away.
I guess it just really bothered me, it’s been bothering me until I spoke to Miles about it. It’s good to have another american here who has been here way longer and can explain things like this to me. Why do people just stereotype and move on, saying “oh no there’s no problem, except for THOSE people. If it weren’t for THOSE people things would be fine. But there’s nothing we can do about THOSE people”? Even though we all know that’s not true, that there are many current social issues that effect all people in this country, including the social issue of aboriginal rights and cultural genocide. I can ask miles these questions and he can throw them back at me. It helps me put it in perspective, so I myself don’t commit the FAE. And so I’ve thought about it and come to the conclusion that those people I was with aren’t bad people just because they didn’t help her. Perhaps they too are just a product of what they’ve been exposed to. It’s all about society. It’s all about what they’ve been taught in schools, what they see on tv and their own personal experiences. And of course, there are the exceptions. The lovely beloved exceptions to every observation. The exceptions that I hope aren’t actually exceptions but the rule, that perhaps I’ve just been exposed to a slightly embittered side of sydney culture, and that maybe there are more people who are aware than those I’ve met thus far. I do not know, but I hope this is true.
So what’s this all got to do with poetry? I’ve been spending a lot of time with miles, typing up the “People’s poem” , the world’s largest poem written by random people of australia. And man, the FAE is silly. It’s really silly. There are a lot of silly, light hearted, somewhat ridiculous lines in that People’s Poem. There are also so many burdened and painful lines (mostly the ones written at the Australia/Survival day concert… written by aboriginal peoples or their allies). But most of all, there are some lines that haunt me. The ones about tolerance, and not just stereotypical “love everyone” hippy-dippy stuff. I’m talking about lines that put up a fight with words, lines that aren’t angry or embittered or loving, just educated and aware. Lines that are well thought out and beautifully carved like a big bold sign “thou shalt not kill” (because we all know there’s more than one way to kill a person). Yes, a line of poetry can do a lot of things. Just one line can change the whole tone of the piece, and open a “fat lazy stupid” american girl’s eyes to the deeper issues plaguing this society, issues so deep that no one will talk about them, and no one wants to hear about them. Issues so deep that they’re allowed to be flung out on dark wet streets, back flat against wet pavement. Yes, I’ve learned that just one line of poetry can push back.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Prema: Love
Here's a poem I did at the Woodford Folk festival:
I was exhausted and it was rainy. But man, guerrilla poetry readings are great.
I was exhausted and it was rainy. But man, guerrilla poetry readings are great.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
