The bar was located in an underground archway. I was momentarily transported back to New York... the roar of the train passing overhead, the smoke filled room, the sound of beer glasses clinking and loud laughter.
The woman on stage (Diana) spotted me immediately (I was the girl with the "What the hell is going on?!" look on her face, so I must've been easy to pick out). She waved me over excitedly and pulled aside a waitress and ordered me a beer. She introduced me to her co-host, MiezeMedusa (stage name... obviously). They both spoke beautiful lilting english, and were so excited and dynamic I was immediately hooked. They showed me where I could set up my camera and as I turned to leave the stage, they started giggleing nervously and said they had a present for me. Out of her bag, Diana pulled a t-shirt with the logo of the poetry collective on it. It was so cool! I thanked them and set up my camera.
Seeing as we were in Vienna, the slam was in German. But it was such a cool experience, sitting there in the corner watching a poetry slam in a language I can't even remotely understand. The most interesting aspect was, of course, that even though it was in German, and even though I coulnd't understand the words, much of the sentiment (from the poet and the audience) was easily understood from gestures and intonation.
I had the priviledge of catching up with MiezeMedusa and Diana again last night at a book launch. We got to talking about the rarity of women in poetry slams, an issue which seems to be pretty universal around the globe. For whatever reason, women are aways in the minority when it comes to competing in poetry slams, although their presence in the audience is evenly split with men. It was really interesting talking to MiezeMedusa about it, because in addition to being a poet (Diana is just a slammistress, not a poet), she is also an MC in a hip-hop group. As rare as female slam poets are, female MCs are even more rare. We theorized about it for a good hour or so, and just couldn't come up with a reason for this gender divide.
Afterwards, I wandered to a nearby cafe and encountered a friend from Hamilton (who was visiting Vienna with her boyfriend), He introduced me to a group of university students, one of whom lives with a collective of MCs, and another who knows the slammaster of the other spoken word collective in Vienna. I took down numbers, tried my first bit of Schnapps (not my favorite) and then wandered home. It was on this walk home, accompanied by my friend and her partner, that I realized how fast my year has gone by. And yet, when I think about how things were when I was just starting in Canada, I laugh to myself. I truly had no idea. And although this trip has been full of its ups and downs, it's been an experience for sure- one I will never ever forget.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Vienna in the Springtime
I had stumbled off the bus from Prague to Vienna into a live snowglobe.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.
I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67
Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?
I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.
Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.
My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.
Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.
I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67
Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?
I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.
Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.
My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.
Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Czech me out!
It took all my energy not to purchase every single beer mug, shot glass and tshirt which sported that corny pun. But I needed to maintain my image as a serious poet, right?
After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.
Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.
We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.
Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.
He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.
I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`
I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.
Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!
After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.
Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.
We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.
Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.
He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.
I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`
I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.
Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Verona Sonnets
Verona is the perfect city to sit at a cafe and write sonnets.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.
I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.
There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:
ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).
The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.
Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)
There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.
Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.
Break up sonnet
So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before
The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.
I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice
If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!
Secret Sonnet
When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar
In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.
Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen
But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.
I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.
There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:
ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).
The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.
Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)
There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.
Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.
Break up sonnet
So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before
The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.
I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice
If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!
Secret Sonnet
When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar
In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.
Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen
But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Venetian Glass
If Rome shouts, Venice whispers.
At least when it isn't high tourist season.
I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.
We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.
There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.
While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.
It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.
At least when it isn't high tourist season.
I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.
We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.
There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.
While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.
It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Roots
"Everything you need to know about Italian culture, you can find out about in our architecture. Anglo houses are built with brick and wood. They are moveable. Italian houses are made of heavy stone, with deep foundations. We remain."
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Kiwis and Ozzies
Some poetry antics and goodbye shots from the southern hemisphere:
Kiwi Poets
I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington
The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.
Maori dedication
Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.
Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug
Post-Night Words festival poet love.
They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)
Kiwi Poets
I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington
The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.
Maori dedication
Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.
Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug
Post-Night Words festival poet love.
They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)
Friday, March 14, 2008
Goodbye Australia, Hello Europe
Truth be told, I had to leave australia or else I'd just stay there forever. I *had* to leave. My body was freaking out, my nerves were at their wits end. I couldn't look people in the eye during conversations because I was daydreaming about other places. I had to leave.
I hate saying goodbye, and the few hours i spent in the Sydney International Airport were filled with quick rushes to the bathroom where i would splash my face with water and tell myself to snap out of it. Because there's so much world to see. And besides, I had to leave. It was obvious.
In sum, Australia was an interesting time for me. More than anything, I think it was spent more on personal growth than on the actual "poetry" aspect, if you want to look at it from a strictly research standpoint. But I think the personal aspect of this project shouldn't be overlooked. As Ginny once told me, the fellowship picks the person, not just the project. And besides, pain, suffering, heartbreak, homesickness, weakness, loneliness- these are all tools of a poet. We love having our hearts smashed, our brains twisted, our capacity of seeing the world and faith in humanity altered immensely. It makes for good poetry. Right?
I had lunch in Sydney. Dinner in Singapore. Best of all, I got to see the stars over Afghanistan. OK, I'm not 100% sure we were exactly over Afghanistan, but according to that map thing on the plane, the stars came out right when we crossed into Afghanistan. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of something I thought about when I was first bitten by the travel bug: people are incredible because they can survive even the worst situations. I felt so much love and sadness for those people below, whose lives were being ruined by the wrecklessness of men in power. I wanted to send a big note down to all of them "The stars are the same in my country too." I don't know why, but I always thought the night sky would be different there. Ignorant me.
We arrived in Rome from the East, with the rising sun. Literally. As the plane touched down on familiar Mediterrainian territory, the sun peaked over the jagged skyline a burning orange. I stepped off the plane and shivered, unaccustomed to typical european weather patterns after being in the southern hemisphere for so long.
I've been to Rome before, and I have to admit, I've never been a fan. I preferred southern coastal cities, I told myself, away from the touristy crowded streets. But this morning, I got to see a side to Rome that few get to experience. I think travelling to a city by oneself really changes the way one sees the city. Particularly true in Rome's case, especially when I arrived before Rome was awake.
Wandering around Rome at 10am is like being handed a key to someone else's dream. Except you get to stay awake during the experience. Narrow winding streets, the only sound is my shoes on the cobblestones, the sun still babyish and soft, just lightly touching the city as if she were saying "Ok, sleep for just 10 more minutes." Getting lost in the labyrinth like streets in those early morning hours was an experience in itself. Rome is just familiar enough that as soon as I feel lost, I turn a corner and a memory is brought back to life. I had gelato there once. I bought a pair of shoes at that store. We drank a bottle of wine and danced in the middle of the alleyway, right there. And then, poof! again, I am back here- an outsider, alone and slightly lost.
I sat down at a cafe at the pantheon, something I never would have done had it been mid-day. But the tables were set and the waiters looked bored and I was famished. So I had breakfast in Rome. I sipped my cappuccino, and watched Rome stir awake. Gradually, the Piazza grew more and more crowded, the streets became louder, singing italian and churchbells. The sound of vespas whizzing past and cars honking angrily with a beautiful frantic mess of languages strewn in.
It's funny, I thought, as I picked and poked my way through those streets, in an obvious memory-induced/jet lagged haze, how can I feel so at home in a city where I've never lived, particularly when I don't speak the language?
But it's true. Coming to Europe was like coming back home. But not Pennsylvania home. Southern Europe home.
And so I plan to use this week to regroup, to adjust to the completely mind-boggling time change (it's 3pm right now, and i'm exhausted... i couldn't even tell you WHAT time it is in my brain.) and of course, to finally record those tracks I've been talking about recording for the past two months. I really would like to write up a CD to sell at poetry readings. It would be good for extra pocket cash, not to mention publicity.
As I wandered back to the hotel (well ok, i got really REALLY lost and eventually called a cab... but hey, I tried...) I came across an entire museum dedicated to Byron and Shelly. You know, the poets. And it makes sense really, that I would choose a country like Italy as my entry into Europe, especially on a trip like this one. Because how can you walk through the incredibly diverse towns of this land, and not be inspired? The story of land, this one in particular, haunts the streets and the people. It seeps into the window panes, gets tangled in telephone wires, mixes with the wine. And you can't help but take it in.
I hate saying goodbye, and the few hours i spent in the Sydney International Airport were filled with quick rushes to the bathroom where i would splash my face with water and tell myself to snap out of it. Because there's so much world to see. And besides, I had to leave. It was obvious.
In sum, Australia was an interesting time for me. More than anything, I think it was spent more on personal growth than on the actual "poetry" aspect, if you want to look at it from a strictly research standpoint. But I think the personal aspect of this project shouldn't be overlooked. As Ginny once told me, the fellowship picks the person, not just the project. And besides, pain, suffering, heartbreak, homesickness, weakness, loneliness- these are all tools of a poet. We love having our hearts smashed, our brains twisted, our capacity of seeing the world and faith in humanity altered immensely. It makes for good poetry. Right?
I had lunch in Sydney. Dinner in Singapore. Best of all, I got to see the stars over Afghanistan. OK, I'm not 100% sure we were exactly over Afghanistan, but according to that map thing on the plane, the stars came out right when we crossed into Afghanistan. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of something I thought about when I was first bitten by the travel bug: people are incredible because they can survive even the worst situations. I felt so much love and sadness for those people below, whose lives were being ruined by the wrecklessness of men in power. I wanted to send a big note down to all of them "The stars are the same in my country too." I don't know why, but I always thought the night sky would be different there. Ignorant me.
We arrived in Rome from the East, with the rising sun. Literally. As the plane touched down on familiar Mediterrainian territory, the sun peaked over the jagged skyline a burning orange. I stepped off the plane and shivered, unaccustomed to typical european weather patterns after being in the southern hemisphere for so long.
I've been to Rome before, and I have to admit, I've never been a fan. I preferred southern coastal cities, I told myself, away from the touristy crowded streets. But this morning, I got to see a side to Rome that few get to experience. I think travelling to a city by oneself really changes the way one sees the city. Particularly true in Rome's case, especially when I arrived before Rome was awake.
Wandering around Rome at 10am is like being handed a key to someone else's dream. Except you get to stay awake during the experience. Narrow winding streets, the only sound is my shoes on the cobblestones, the sun still babyish and soft, just lightly touching the city as if she were saying "Ok, sleep for just 10 more minutes." Getting lost in the labyrinth like streets in those early morning hours was an experience in itself. Rome is just familiar enough that as soon as I feel lost, I turn a corner and a memory is brought back to life. I had gelato there once. I bought a pair of shoes at that store. We drank a bottle of wine and danced in the middle of the alleyway, right there. And then, poof! again, I am back here- an outsider, alone and slightly lost.
I sat down at a cafe at the pantheon, something I never would have done had it been mid-day. But the tables were set and the waiters looked bored and I was famished. So I had breakfast in Rome. I sipped my cappuccino, and watched Rome stir awake. Gradually, the Piazza grew more and more crowded, the streets became louder, singing italian and churchbells. The sound of vespas whizzing past and cars honking angrily with a beautiful frantic mess of languages strewn in.
It's funny, I thought, as I picked and poked my way through those streets, in an obvious memory-induced/jet lagged haze, how can I feel so at home in a city where I've never lived, particularly when I don't speak the language?
But it's true. Coming to Europe was like coming back home. But not Pennsylvania home. Southern Europe home.
And so I plan to use this week to regroup, to adjust to the completely mind-boggling time change (it's 3pm right now, and i'm exhausted... i couldn't even tell you WHAT time it is in my brain.) and of course, to finally record those tracks I've been talking about recording for the past two months. I really would like to write up a CD to sell at poetry readings. It would be good for extra pocket cash, not to mention publicity.
As I wandered back to the hotel (well ok, i got really REALLY lost and eventually called a cab... but hey, I tried...) I came across an entire museum dedicated to Byron and Shelly. You know, the poets. And it makes sense really, that I would choose a country like Italy as my entry into Europe, especially on a trip like this one. Because how can you walk through the incredibly diverse towns of this land, and not be inspired? The story of land, this one in particular, haunts the streets and the people. It seeps into the window panes, gets tangled in telephone wires, mixes with the wine. And you can't help but take it in.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
sometimes i obsess over things i don't say
Maybe I didn’t listen hard enough when they warned me about free time. There’s so much free time on this trip. No matter how many contacts you make, emails you write, poems you revise, tapes you review, there are still these moments when you find yourself all alone, in dead silence. I am sitting in an empty room at a friend’s house in Glebe, a suburb of Sydney. My bags are packed, my phone is charged, all my flight information is written in my notepad. And I am sad to leave sydney (we’ll get to that in a bit) but I can’t help but think about a conversation I had a few nights ago at a bar.
I hate goodbyes, particularly dramatic ones. I prefer to escape a country in the early hours of the morning, when I don’t have time to wallow and say goodbye. Like it’s all part of dream and when I wake I’ll be somewhere new, maybe where the cars will drive on the other side of the road and the people talk quickly and emphatically in a language I don’t speak.
But not this time, and I knew that. My flight leaves in the afternoon. Giving me all morning to reflect. But as I said before, I hate dramatic goodbyes, and so I decided to throw a party in honor of Jack Kerouac’s birthday (March 11) and sllightly mention my own departure (March 13). I invited some of the people I’ve met while I’ve been here, and like I always seem to do, I got myself involved in a deep, somewhat inebriated (I wasn’t, they were) discussion about feminism.
I bit my tongue that night. And now, looking back on it, it angers me a little that I was afraid to stand up for my beliefs. And in the solitude of this morning, questions seem to come back to haunt me, challenging my “friendly neighborhood feminist” position that I so often take in the presence of men, so as to not scare or offend them.
But why is it that I tiptoe around an issue that affects the majority of people on this planet? Yes, that’s right, the majority of people on this planet are women. Why must we act like a minority? Why is it, then, that talk of issues that affect the majority are kept to a minimum, and I must explain myself, “No, I’m not that kind of feminist. I don’t hate men”
Don’t hate men? Well, that’s a generalization. I do hate certain men. So do most women. I hate the kind of men that sit at a bar table, next to their girlfriends, checking out the waitress and saying “She’s pretty hot, isn’t she? Could use to lose a few pounds though” etc etc. I hate the kind of men that say “I hate it how women always ‘cry rape’ because it gives them too much power.” Yes, those kinds of men, I do certainly hate.
And what do I mean exactly when I say I’m “not that kind of feminist”. What kind of feminist am I? It’s true, I hate using the term because it has been bastardized over the years by popular culture. Feminists have always been considered fat, ugly, militant women that become lesbians soley because they “can’t land a guy” and other ridiculous stereotypes that are so far from the truth it’s inconcievable how they even were created. But that’s not why I hesitate to use the label. I hesitate because to me, it’s redundant to being a woman.
It’s logical, really. Why wouldn’t I be concerned for the health and safety of women when so many female university students are assaulted and/or raped? Why wouldn’t I be at least a little angered by the way we are expected to prance around and act stupid so we don’t “intimidate” men by being too smart? Why wouldn’t I be upset when I see dolls made for little girls that have unrealistic proportions, or when I see teenagers idolizing film stars and pop stars who are obviously coked out, anorexic and depressed.
Even from the “might equals right” standpoint (which I loathe) the feminist argument holds up. Why is it that the majority is obeying laws not only created by the minority, but also laws that actively hurt and danger the rigths of the majority? And why is it that when the majority tries to speak out against such blatant injustice, the minority brushes it off with a “oh don’t be such a man-hating feminazi”. Why is it that we judge the majority based off of the standards set by the minority (ie women are too sensitve… well why isn’t it that men have emotional issues? Women have boundary issues… why isn’t it that men have commitment issues? Women are irrational… why isn’t it that men can’t think outside the box? Each are equally as offensive, but we always act as if the women are the abnormality. But even from a scientific perspective, an abnormality is something that strays from the norm… and the norm is set by the average behavior, usually influenced by the majority. Therefore, if women (the majority) are acting a certain way, it should be men (the minority) who are criticized and analyzed for being different)
But most of all, why is it that I, a university educated woman with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, who can speak two languages fluently, and is brave enough to travel the world alone is too afraid to be intellegent and logical around a few guys who are being offensive to her sex over a few beers?
To be honest, I’m tired of hiding behind this “friendly feminist” exterior. Something I’ve noticed while traveling is that you have to give cultural differences some space, even if they are offensive. I may be completely off here, but I think feminism is a bit behind here in australia. I’ve mentioned it before, and previously wrote it off as a “well, sucks for them but who am I to say they’re wrong”. Kind of like the same way I just accepted the fact that australians don’t like to think about the “american” perspective when listening to poetry ( I was pushing it enough by even getting up there with ny yankee accent, so it’s best to avoid topics about the US altogether). But I think a place like australia, particularly sydney could use a wake up call when it comes to issues that make them uncomfortable. It’s such a culture based off of being comfortable, of not extending oneself or pushing oneself. Its about knocking eachother down to size, not because they are competative, but simply because they are afraid of competition. In that way it is so incredibly different than the states. Complacency is something I’ve never been good at. If there’s a button to be pressed I press it. And so I wonder if I have done myself an injustice by altering my personality to suit the comforts of others. Where do you draw the line? Should I have defended more ferverently a woman’s right to say no? Should I have stuck up for that waitress, told that guy to shut the hell up and that he could use to lose a few pounds too? Should I have quoted the feminist philosoophers of the past ( a term which tends to make boys giggle- feminist philosophy? How ridiculous, we all know women aren’t rational creatures… etc etc) Should I have cited Susan B Anthony “Men want equality and nothing more. Women want equality and nothing less.” Should I have told them to put that in their pipe and smoke it? It was the fear of sounding not only too feminist, but too american, that stopped me from interjecting. A fear that is ridiculous, at its core, of course because those are two things about myself which I did not choose. I did not choose to be a woman (and therefore a feminist) and I certainly did not choose to be american.
But strangely, after being away from home for so long, I’ve realized that I’m glad I am both those things. There is so much anti-americanism in this world. The criticisms are always the same- apparently we’re all dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, fat, lazy, competative, pro-war, pro-guns, pro-violence, nationalistic, money obsessed, self absorbed, assholes. But the irony, of course, is that these statements are usualy coming from people who exhibit at least half of those aforementioned qualities. Because to say “all people from country X are this way”, especially when country X is as massive and diverse as the US, is a dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, nationalistic, self absorbed thing to say.
These are also usually the people who say they hate all feminists, and check out other women in front of their girlfriends.
And for as frustrated as it makes me, I feel like maybe it is my obligation as an educated, non-violent American woman with broad horizons, and few explicit prejudices, it could be my responsibility to disprove such notions about my country. Certainly, bad people exist, but it’s not restricted to americans. I’ve met more prejudiced, racist, sexist, homophobic australians in Sydney alone than in New York City. But I’ve also met some wonderful people here, and I’ve met wonderful people in the states. So maybe it’s not restricted to nationality- maybe there are some ignorant people in every country (duh). I don’t want to be, by any means, a spokesperson or an embassador or some sort for all americans. Because I don’t represent all americans. America is a contradictory nation. And that’s what I love about it. The fact that a place so diverse with so many contradicting laws, views and people can still somehow magically stay together is amazing ( I say it’s superglue). But I could never represent all that. I can only represent myself and when someone says in that ridiculously patronizing tone “Oh we’ve met a smart american” I can only say “You should actually go to the states sometime. You might be surprised how many smart americans you’d find..”
I hate goodbyes, particularly dramatic ones. I prefer to escape a country in the early hours of the morning, when I don’t have time to wallow and say goodbye. Like it’s all part of dream and when I wake I’ll be somewhere new, maybe where the cars will drive on the other side of the road and the people talk quickly and emphatically in a language I don’t speak.
But not this time, and I knew that. My flight leaves in the afternoon. Giving me all morning to reflect. But as I said before, I hate dramatic goodbyes, and so I decided to throw a party in honor of Jack Kerouac’s birthday (March 11) and sllightly mention my own departure (March 13). I invited some of the people I’ve met while I’ve been here, and like I always seem to do, I got myself involved in a deep, somewhat inebriated (I wasn’t, they were) discussion about feminism.
I bit my tongue that night. And now, looking back on it, it angers me a little that I was afraid to stand up for my beliefs. And in the solitude of this morning, questions seem to come back to haunt me, challenging my “friendly neighborhood feminist” position that I so often take in the presence of men, so as to not scare or offend them.
But why is it that I tiptoe around an issue that affects the majority of people on this planet? Yes, that’s right, the majority of people on this planet are women. Why must we act like a minority? Why is it, then, that talk of issues that affect the majority are kept to a minimum, and I must explain myself, “No, I’m not that kind of feminist. I don’t hate men”
Don’t hate men? Well, that’s a generalization. I do hate certain men. So do most women. I hate the kind of men that sit at a bar table, next to their girlfriends, checking out the waitress and saying “She’s pretty hot, isn’t she? Could use to lose a few pounds though” etc etc. I hate the kind of men that say “I hate it how women always ‘cry rape’ because it gives them too much power.” Yes, those kinds of men, I do certainly hate.
And what do I mean exactly when I say I’m “not that kind of feminist”. What kind of feminist am I? It’s true, I hate using the term because it has been bastardized over the years by popular culture. Feminists have always been considered fat, ugly, militant women that become lesbians soley because they “can’t land a guy” and other ridiculous stereotypes that are so far from the truth it’s inconcievable how they even were created. But that’s not why I hesitate to use the label. I hesitate because to me, it’s redundant to being a woman.
It’s logical, really. Why wouldn’t I be concerned for the health and safety of women when so many female university students are assaulted and/or raped? Why wouldn’t I be at least a little angered by the way we are expected to prance around and act stupid so we don’t “intimidate” men by being too smart? Why wouldn’t I be upset when I see dolls made for little girls that have unrealistic proportions, or when I see teenagers idolizing film stars and pop stars who are obviously coked out, anorexic and depressed.
Even from the “might equals right” standpoint (which I loathe) the feminist argument holds up. Why is it that the majority is obeying laws not only created by the minority, but also laws that actively hurt and danger the rigths of the majority? And why is it that when the majority tries to speak out against such blatant injustice, the minority brushes it off with a “oh don’t be such a man-hating feminazi”. Why is it that we judge the majority based off of the standards set by the minority (ie women are too sensitve… well why isn’t it that men have emotional issues? Women have boundary issues… why isn’t it that men have commitment issues? Women are irrational… why isn’t it that men can’t think outside the box? Each are equally as offensive, but we always act as if the women are the abnormality. But even from a scientific perspective, an abnormality is something that strays from the norm… and the norm is set by the average behavior, usually influenced by the majority. Therefore, if women (the majority) are acting a certain way, it should be men (the minority) who are criticized and analyzed for being different)
But most of all, why is it that I, a university educated woman with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, who can speak two languages fluently, and is brave enough to travel the world alone is too afraid to be intellegent and logical around a few guys who are being offensive to her sex over a few beers?
To be honest, I’m tired of hiding behind this “friendly feminist” exterior. Something I’ve noticed while traveling is that you have to give cultural differences some space, even if they are offensive. I may be completely off here, but I think feminism is a bit behind here in australia. I’ve mentioned it before, and previously wrote it off as a “well, sucks for them but who am I to say they’re wrong”. Kind of like the same way I just accepted the fact that australians don’t like to think about the “american” perspective when listening to poetry ( I was pushing it enough by even getting up there with ny yankee accent, so it’s best to avoid topics about the US altogether). But I think a place like australia, particularly sydney could use a wake up call when it comes to issues that make them uncomfortable. It’s such a culture based off of being comfortable, of not extending oneself or pushing oneself. Its about knocking eachother down to size, not because they are competative, but simply because they are afraid of competition. In that way it is so incredibly different than the states. Complacency is something I’ve never been good at. If there’s a button to be pressed I press it. And so I wonder if I have done myself an injustice by altering my personality to suit the comforts of others. Where do you draw the line? Should I have defended more ferverently a woman’s right to say no? Should I have stuck up for that waitress, told that guy to shut the hell up and that he could use to lose a few pounds too? Should I have quoted the feminist philosoophers of the past ( a term which tends to make boys giggle- feminist philosophy? How ridiculous, we all know women aren’t rational creatures… etc etc) Should I have cited Susan B Anthony “Men want equality and nothing more. Women want equality and nothing less.” Should I have told them to put that in their pipe and smoke it? It was the fear of sounding not only too feminist, but too american, that stopped me from interjecting. A fear that is ridiculous, at its core, of course because those are two things about myself which I did not choose. I did not choose to be a woman (and therefore a feminist) and I certainly did not choose to be american.
But strangely, after being away from home for so long, I’ve realized that I’m glad I am both those things. There is so much anti-americanism in this world. The criticisms are always the same- apparently we’re all dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, fat, lazy, competative, pro-war, pro-guns, pro-violence, nationalistic, money obsessed, self absorbed, assholes. But the irony, of course, is that these statements are usualy coming from people who exhibit at least half of those aforementioned qualities. Because to say “all people from country X are this way”, especially when country X is as massive and diverse as the US, is a dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, nationalistic, self absorbed thing to say.
These are also usually the people who say they hate all feminists, and check out other women in front of their girlfriends.
And for as frustrated as it makes me, I feel like maybe it is my obligation as an educated, non-violent American woman with broad horizons, and few explicit prejudices, it could be my responsibility to disprove such notions about my country. Certainly, bad people exist, but it’s not restricted to americans. I’ve met more prejudiced, racist, sexist, homophobic australians in Sydney alone than in New York City. But I’ve also met some wonderful people here, and I’ve met wonderful people in the states. So maybe it’s not restricted to nationality- maybe there are some ignorant people in every country (duh). I don’t want to be, by any means, a spokesperson or an embassador or some sort for all americans. Because I don’t represent all americans. America is a contradictory nation. And that’s what I love about it. The fact that a place so diverse with so many contradicting laws, views and people can still somehow magically stay together is amazing ( I say it’s superglue). But I could never represent all that. I can only represent myself and when someone says in that ridiculously patronizing tone “Oh we’ve met a smart american” I can only say “You should actually go to the states sometime. You might be surprised how many smart americans you’d find..”
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Signs
I like seeing airplanes cast tiny shadows over the sun.
Even for just a moment.
it reminds me of all the places I've seen.
Even for just a moment.
it reminds me of all the places I've seen.
Slam-ily?
Maybe it’s because I’ve been in Sydney too long. You know you’ve been in a city too long when the beautiful attractions become mundane. The food no longer interests you. You stop being able to distinguish between your accent and the accent of the people. You become cynical, spoilt. Yes, that is what I’ve become. The opera house, once strange, alien, artistic has become nothing more than a pretentious eyesore, the harbor bridge might as well be the brooklyn bridge, the surfers lost their sun-bleached blonde appeal, the poets lost their novel originality. I'm spoilt, I'm cyincal, bitter. I'm looking to the west once more. I'm looking for narrow ancient streets with no side walks, mediterranian sunlight, men in tight pants racing down the wrong way through a one way street on Vespas. I'm tired of English for a bit. I need to be immersed in the foriegn. I need to be overwhelmed, lost, in the best way possible. In a way that only southern European countries can.
It's not that i haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I haven't learned a lot. Australia was probably the country where I've experienced the most "personal growth" than any other place. I hit my wall here, and I came out alive and kicking. It's probably one of the most beautiful countries I've been to, with some of the most bizzarre personalities.
The concept of a slam-ily has crossed my mind mulitple times throughout this trip, and I often wonder if it is even possible to have a functional slam-ily. Spoken word artists are a strange cross-breed, a mix between entertainer (read: egotistical diva) and poet (read: introverted loner). So the idea of a functional slamily might exist, if only the entertainer part was less powerful. Oftentimes, especially in the case of poetry slams, because of the competition that exists (although, in theory slam poets “know” the competition doesn’t matter) poets begin to compare themselves to eachother. In certain places, places like Sydney, you just feel it. They size up their opponenets, whisper comments about stage presence and snicker at the useage of trite phrases. Healthy competition is great, it keeps poets original, keeps the audience interested, keeps the MCs on their toes. But I'm not convinced that's what's really going on here.
But the danger is, of course, that any sense of “family” will be eventually lost to the competition. Poets will eventually stop backing eachother up, and instead attempt to backhandidly sabatoge the other’s work, reputation, or both. Gatherings of poets will cease to be about getting feedback, sharing contacts, networking will be more of a preditorial activity, poets will sleep with event organizers and fabricate stories about other peots sleeping with event organzers in order to secure a gig. It will stop being about the poetry, it’ll start being about the ego.
I know this development is inevitable in the arts. In some countries and cultures, it’s a development that won’t occur for many years. In others, it is almost inherent within the scene.
Driving home from my last poetry event in Australia, I looked out my window and sighed. After being around so many performers in a group with a dynamic like this, I often walk away feeling drained but also thankful. Thankful for my third party status in the scene. Tired of the drama, the ego, the glitz and glam (an extention of hollywood theater, with fake plastic girls, fake plastic smiles). Not all poetry in australia is like this. I’ve seen amazing performances, met amazing people, been completely blown away by diversity, generosity and sincerity. But it was an interesting way to sum up my trip.
I know I try to be as polite as possible, after all, this isn’t my poetry scene, and so I don’t even have the right to comment or criticize. But at the same time, it is my job to examine. And after examining the australian scene for 3 months, I can honestly say that though there is a potential for a great big sydney slamily, it’s creation is doubtful at best.
Here’s the thing. At the night words festival, the phrase “modern day poetic campfire” was used in describing the festival. I can say fully, that nothing could’ve been farther than the truth. At a campfire, there is no diva. There is no host. It’s just people sharing their stories for no other reason than because it is what they love to do. It’s for the word. It’s for the poetry. It’s for the people.
It’s almost like the only thing important in a good poetry show is the poetry and the audience. The poet is simply a transport system for the spoken word to reach the ears of the audience. The poet is nothing.
But we are artists! We proclaim We have art! High art! Sophisticated art! Art that is more high and sophistcated than our peers! Sit back, audience, shut up and be amazed at MY art.
After the festival, I had the most bizzarre urge to take my notebook and a pen, find a secluded spot by the harbor and wrie something. Not just anything. Something sincere. Something honest. Not for me and my own enjoyment or fulfillment. Something for the sake of poetry and the sake of people and the sake of laughter and not taking it so goddamn seriously anymore. Something childish and innocent and true. Something that will hold attention not with on-stage shenanegins, but because it’s true. Not high art. Just words.
It's not that i haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I haven't learned a lot. Australia was probably the country where I've experienced the most "personal growth" than any other place. I hit my wall here, and I came out alive and kicking. It's probably one of the most beautiful countries I've been to, with some of the most bizzarre personalities.
The concept of a slam-ily has crossed my mind mulitple times throughout this trip, and I often wonder if it is even possible to have a functional slam-ily. Spoken word artists are a strange cross-breed, a mix between entertainer (read: egotistical diva) and poet (read: introverted loner). So the idea of a functional slamily might exist, if only the entertainer part was less powerful. Oftentimes, especially in the case of poetry slams, because of the competition that exists (although, in theory slam poets “know” the competition doesn’t matter) poets begin to compare themselves to eachother. In certain places, places like Sydney, you just feel it. They size up their opponenets, whisper comments about stage presence and snicker at the useage of trite phrases. Healthy competition is great, it keeps poets original, keeps the audience interested, keeps the MCs on their toes. But I'm not convinced that's what's really going on here.
But the danger is, of course, that any sense of “family” will be eventually lost to the competition. Poets will eventually stop backing eachother up, and instead attempt to backhandidly sabatoge the other’s work, reputation, or both. Gatherings of poets will cease to be about getting feedback, sharing contacts, networking will be more of a preditorial activity, poets will sleep with event organizers and fabricate stories about other peots sleeping with event organzers in order to secure a gig. It will stop being about the poetry, it’ll start being about the ego.
I know this development is inevitable in the arts. In some countries and cultures, it’s a development that won’t occur for many years. In others, it is almost inherent within the scene.
Driving home from my last poetry event in Australia, I looked out my window and sighed. After being around so many performers in a group with a dynamic like this, I often walk away feeling drained but also thankful. Thankful for my third party status in the scene. Tired of the drama, the ego, the glitz and glam (an extention of hollywood theater, with fake plastic girls, fake plastic smiles). Not all poetry in australia is like this. I’ve seen amazing performances, met amazing people, been completely blown away by diversity, generosity and sincerity. But it was an interesting way to sum up my trip.
I know I try to be as polite as possible, after all, this isn’t my poetry scene, and so I don’t even have the right to comment or criticize. But at the same time, it is my job to examine. And after examining the australian scene for 3 months, I can honestly say that though there is a potential for a great big sydney slamily, it’s creation is doubtful at best.
Here’s the thing. At the night words festival, the phrase “modern day poetic campfire” was used in describing the festival. I can say fully, that nothing could’ve been farther than the truth. At a campfire, there is no diva. There is no host. It’s just people sharing their stories for no other reason than because it is what they love to do. It’s for the word. It’s for the poetry. It’s for the people.
It’s almost like the only thing important in a good poetry show is the poetry and the audience. The poet is simply a transport system for the spoken word to reach the ears of the audience. The poet is nothing.
But we are artists! We proclaim We have art! High art! Sophisticated art! Art that is more high and sophistcated than our peers! Sit back, audience, shut up and be amazed at MY art.
After the festival, I had the most bizzarre urge to take my notebook and a pen, find a secluded spot by the harbor and wrie something. Not just anything. Something sincere. Something honest. Not for me and my own enjoyment or fulfillment. Something for the sake of poetry and the sake of people and the sake of laughter and not taking it so goddamn seriously anymore. Something childish and innocent and true. Something that will hold attention not with on-stage shenanegins, but because it’s true. Not high art. Just words.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Things I love, things I hate
about this fellowship go hand in hand.
I love travelling. I love meeting new people.
I hate leaving. I hate goodbyes.
Let's back up. I left auckland after an amazing night. I had the absolute priviledge to perform a feature set (about 30 min) to the most polite crowd I've ever seen. I mean, I almost stopped halfway through because they were so quiet, I thought I was boring them. But they urged me to keep going, which was so great.
It's funny how things seem to just fall into place on this trip. I mean, I originally was going to New Zealand just to take a break from Australia, to renew my ETA so I could stay for the Night Words Festival. But I was so incredibly blessed to meet such incredible people there: Renee Liang, Christian Jenson, Murray and all the other poets in Auckland seemed to welcome me with such gracious and open arms; Jade who was initially pressured into hanging out with me courtesy of Chandra, but then became inspired by the poetry and I think he's now one of us too; the Marks family who were kind enough to let a perfect stranger stay in their house for almost 2 weeks, Nate who directed a lost little poet through the streets of Newtown and Wellington and taught her about Maori culture and all the wonderful people who I'm forgetting to mention at the moment, you know who you are. It hurt to leave all these gracious people behind, it hurt so much that I still haven't really thought about it until right now.
So now I'm back in Australia. I'm not going to lie, I was initially really hesitant about ocming back. Melbourne and New Zealand put me in such an improved mood and state of mind, I was afraid that by returning to the scene of my somewhat existential crisis, I'd be sucked back into the vortex of despair etc etc. But it hasn't been the case thus far. I stepped off the plane and thought about something Renee said to me before I left. She said I'd be fine once I was in the CBD of Sydney, and everything would be cool again. And that's when it hit me: while I was staying here, I really only hung out with people in certain areas of sydney... there is an entire other part of this city that I haven't seen! and if I am strong enough to just show up in 3 cities (Wellington, Auckland and Melbourne) for a few days and so quickly meet so many amazing people, heck, why couldn't that happen in Sydney? And so as I rode in the cab on the way back to Bondi, a wave of revitalized "Jess"-ness washed over me. Let's do this again. The proper way. Let's try to find the real Sydney. And stop being so freaking nice all the time. At which point the cab driver made a snarky comment about my ability to give directions and I pretty much dished it back to him. What can I say, he was being rude and he caught me in a pensive moment. Bad luck.
And thus far it's working. I spent all day yesterday in a completely new part of town with some new people. It's also helped that some of the poets from Melbourne are up for the Night Words festival this weekend, so it's like all the best things I loved about Australia in one place!
I'm really looking forwards to the festival (which starts tonight and goes for 3 days). And on Sunday I have tickets to Cat Power (love her!) in Newtown. I'm super excited for that too.
It's weird though, to think this time next week I'll be in Europe. It's weird and sad. As much as I know I need to move on, and as much as my instincts are pushing me to leave (and trust me, I'm ready to leave) I'll always have a little tug in my heart for Australia. And I'll always want to come back to New Zealand too, because really 2 weeks is long enough to start to love a place, but not really know it.
And in that way, I feel like I'm really lucky too. Because most people would spend 2 weeks at touristy places, museums, taking ferry rides and hitting all the traps. I don't have time for that stuff. I spend my 2 weeks in tiny bars or cafes, talking to real people (or poets). I feel like I get a crash course in culture, society and poetry all rolled into one package. Poets see the world so differently than most people, so I feel like I get to experience a part of the country that most people never get to see, unless they live there for a long period of time. It's like there are no formalities, I just jump right under the skin of the city and somewhat messily try to figure it out.
I get to see the dirty, raw, dramatic aspects of the culture. I get to hear about the poetic gossip of the city. It's incredible stuff. It's also what makes the goodbye so much harder.
I love travelling. I love meeting new people.
I hate leaving. I hate goodbyes.
Let's back up. I left auckland after an amazing night. I had the absolute priviledge to perform a feature set (about 30 min) to the most polite crowd I've ever seen. I mean, I almost stopped halfway through because they were so quiet, I thought I was boring them. But they urged me to keep going, which was so great.
It's funny how things seem to just fall into place on this trip. I mean, I originally was going to New Zealand just to take a break from Australia, to renew my ETA so I could stay for the Night Words Festival. But I was so incredibly blessed to meet such incredible people there: Renee Liang, Christian Jenson, Murray and all the other poets in Auckland seemed to welcome me with such gracious and open arms; Jade who was initially pressured into hanging out with me courtesy of Chandra, but then became inspired by the poetry and I think he's now one of us too; the Marks family who were kind enough to let a perfect stranger stay in their house for almost 2 weeks, Nate who directed a lost little poet through the streets of Newtown and Wellington and taught her about Maori culture and all the wonderful people who I'm forgetting to mention at the moment, you know who you are. It hurt to leave all these gracious people behind, it hurt so much that I still haven't really thought about it until right now.
So now I'm back in Australia. I'm not going to lie, I was initially really hesitant about ocming back. Melbourne and New Zealand put me in such an improved mood and state of mind, I was afraid that by returning to the scene of my somewhat existential crisis, I'd be sucked back into the vortex of despair etc etc. But it hasn't been the case thus far. I stepped off the plane and thought about something Renee said to me before I left. She said I'd be fine once I was in the CBD of Sydney, and everything would be cool again. And that's when it hit me: while I was staying here, I really only hung out with people in certain areas of sydney... there is an entire other part of this city that I haven't seen! and if I am strong enough to just show up in 3 cities (Wellington, Auckland and Melbourne) for a few days and so quickly meet so many amazing people, heck, why couldn't that happen in Sydney? And so as I rode in the cab on the way back to Bondi, a wave of revitalized "Jess"-ness washed over me. Let's do this again. The proper way. Let's try to find the real Sydney. And stop being so freaking nice all the time. At which point the cab driver made a snarky comment about my ability to give directions and I pretty much dished it back to him. What can I say, he was being rude and he caught me in a pensive moment. Bad luck.
And thus far it's working. I spent all day yesterday in a completely new part of town with some new people. It's also helped that some of the poets from Melbourne are up for the Night Words festival this weekend, so it's like all the best things I loved about Australia in one place!
I'm really looking forwards to the festival (which starts tonight and goes for 3 days). And on Sunday I have tickets to Cat Power (love her!) in Newtown. I'm super excited for that too.
It's weird though, to think this time next week I'll be in Europe. It's weird and sad. As much as I know I need to move on, and as much as my instincts are pushing me to leave (and trust me, I'm ready to leave) I'll always have a little tug in my heart for Australia. And I'll always want to come back to New Zealand too, because really 2 weeks is long enough to start to love a place, but not really know it.
And in that way, I feel like I'm really lucky too. Because most people would spend 2 weeks at touristy places, museums, taking ferry rides and hitting all the traps. I don't have time for that stuff. I spend my 2 weeks in tiny bars or cafes, talking to real people (or poets). I feel like I get a crash course in culture, society and poetry all rolled into one package. Poets see the world so differently than most people, so I feel like I get to experience a part of the country that most people never get to see, unless they live there for a long period of time. It's like there are no formalities, I just jump right under the skin of the city and somewhat messily try to figure it out.
I get to see the dirty, raw, dramatic aspects of the culture. I get to hear about the poetic gossip of the city. It's incredible stuff. It's also what makes the goodbye so much harder.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Memory
In a state of what can only be described as quasi- boredom, (which, I can proudly say, has been a rarity for the past few weeks) I was flipping through my old pictures in iphoto: “senior spring!” “Honduras Spring Break” “Summer Road trip 07” and of course “Study Abroad Sights”. Those of you who know me well, or those of you who read my blogs but don’t know me (which I think is equally awesome), you know how I felt about my semester in Granada. And as I was looking over those photos, I braced myself for the sadness I usually experience, the tug in my heart, the pull back to spain, and the frantic rearrangement of plans to see when the enxt possible date of return could be. But it never came. What came instead was a grin across my lips, and a giggle. My heart, instead of pulled was lifted, my spirit brightened and the uncontrolled thought that rushed into my mind was “My god, that was the happiest time of my life.”
While I was living in Spain, I knew this day would come. I dreaded it. I hated the thought of being somewhere else (anywhere not spain) and thinking “those were the happiest days of my life”. But now I see that it was asilly thing to fear. I think back on those days now, after so many months of pushing the memories to the back of my mind out of fear, and I smile. They make me happy because I know I lived every day to its fullest. I was completely in touch with the universe, as I like to say, meaning I followed my intuition, I took risks, I dove in head first. And the sadness I long feared never came. And the desire to return, yes that’s still there. But I know that when the time is right, things will fall into place.
I love this about traveling the most. I love working through the struggles, and coming out stronger, looking in the mirror and not quite recognizing who this person is staring back at me. Where did that child go? That nervous college graduate? Who is this girl who talks to taxi drivers in spanish, asks strangers for directions, competes in international poetry slams, makes strangers cry? Who is this? And what does she want?
After looking at those photos, my memories of spain seem to have given me new fuel to continue. I dove in head first once, why not again? Complete reckless abandon- why not embrace it?
I’m looking at my european schedule with a feeling of complete excitement and overwhelming anxiety. But in the best way possible. So many places to go. So many poets to meet. I can honestly say that in a month from now, I have NO idea where I will be located. I’ve got a list of 5 potential countries, and I’m scattering them to the wind. How can I decide where I want to be when I’m on the other side of the planet? I’ll make my decision when I get there. If I’m going out early (thank you crappy American economy), I’ll go out with a bang.
A reinstatement of the primary mission: Meet as many poets and get inspired in uncharted territory. Culture shock and shoestring travel for 5 more months. Or until the money runs out. Let’s do this.
While I was living in Spain, I knew this day would come. I dreaded it. I hated the thought of being somewhere else (anywhere not spain) and thinking “those were the happiest days of my life”. But now I see that it was asilly thing to fear. I think back on those days now, after so many months of pushing the memories to the back of my mind out of fear, and I smile. They make me happy because I know I lived every day to its fullest. I was completely in touch with the universe, as I like to say, meaning I followed my intuition, I took risks, I dove in head first. And the sadness I long feared never came. And the desire to return, yes that’s still there. But I know that when the time is right, things will fall into place.
I love this about traveling the most. I love working through the struggles, and coming out stronger, looking in the mirror and not quite recognizing who this person is staring back at me. Where did that child go? That nervous college graduate? Who is this girl who talks to taxi drivers in spanish, asks strangers for directions, competes in international poetry slams, makes strangers cry? Who is this? And what does she want?
After looking at those photos, my memories of spain seem to have given me new fuel to continue. I dove in head first once, why not again? Complete reckless abandon- why not embrace it?
I’m looking at my european schedule with a feeling of complete excitement and overwhelming anxiety. But in the best way possible. So many places to go. So many poets to meet. I can honestly say that in a month from now, I have NO idea where I will be located. I’ve got a list of 5 potential countries, and I’m scattering them to the wind. How can I decide where I want to be when I’m on the other side of the planet? I’ll make my decision when I get there. If I’m going out early (thank you crappy American economy), I’ll go out with a bang.
A reinstatement of the primary mission: Meet as many poets and get inspired in uncharted territory. Culture shock and shoestring travel for 5 more months. Or until the money runs out. Let’s do this.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Halfway? Already?
So about (gasp) a week ago, I realized it was my six month "anniversary" of being on this fellowship.
I'd like to thank the Bristol family for funding my travels, Ginny for responding to my emails so quickly, Jesse for his emotional support and my mother for answering the phone at 3am whenever I have a stupid question or an irrational freak out.
Project wise, it's been really really incredible. I've met poets from all over the world, recorded them and created friendships with them. I love this aspect of my fellowship because it encompasses both work and social life. I meet a poet, and it's like we're already friends. The bad part is, of course, that departing is doubly difficult. My countries have changed since my initial project, and I have no doubt that they will keep changing. Poets have contacts all over the world- this makes touring easier. So when I got to australia, they insisted I go to New Zealand, France and England. And when I got to New Zealand they insisted I go to Northern Ireland, Scotland and Germany. etc etc etc. So I'm not really sure what's going on, or where I'll be or when... but it's kind of fun that way.
As far as luggage goes, I'm still convinced I'm carrying too much stuff. This is due to the dual nature of my personality, where I want to have my nice small wheeled suitcase so when I introduce myself to poets at the airport/train station/whatever, I don't look like some crazy backpacker. But at the same time, I don't want to get rid of my backpack because, well, it's just so handy. I keep sending home boxes of clothes/things I don't need and I don't know why I took them in the first place. I've given away lots of clothes too, which makes everything lighter and easier to handle.
Financially, things could be better. The depressing state of the US dollar impacts those of us that are traveling the most, especially when we're traveling to countries that should have a good exchange rate. This essentially means I'm paying 5 dollars for a cup of coffee when I should be paying 3. I know I shouldn't think of it like that, but it's hard not to. I've been couchsurfing a lot, which is great because poets are such wonderful hosts and it saves me money too! But I am visiting mostly first world countries, and let's face it, lots of money is necessary. So I'm considering cutting down on a few countries and living off of fruit. Just kidding about that last part.
So how's it been? In short, it's been different. After the initial 3 month honey moon stage wore off, I think I really began to see what kind of trip it was I was actually embarking on. Sure the documentary is important, but there's this whole other level of things going on internally that weren't being recorded. A friend of mine suggested I start turning the camera on myself as well, to capture some of this struggle. Struggle? yeah, I know. I could be working a desk job in Boston right now. But believe it or not, traveling alone causes some struggle. There's no way to know if you're making the right call on future plans. There's no one to bounce your ideas off of. There's no one to remind you what hemisphere you're in when you wake up all disoriented at 3pm on someone's couch. There's no one there to guard your stuff while you pee. It's just you and the open road/sea/airways. It's exactly what I've always wanted.
Some one recently asked me "what makes you so brave?"
I laughed real hard and almost choked on some lettuce.
Is this bravery we're talking about? Or is it luck? Is it just simply feeding my quasi-insane mentality where I go a little nuts whenever I stay in one place for too long?
Maybe it's a little of everything.
About 2 years before he died, I had the pleasure of meeting Beat poet, Robert Creeley. We chatted for a bit, and he signed my book. I've always liked his poetry, for the influence that travel and love and memory play in his work. Years later, after his death, I found that book again, and re-read what he wrote to me. A single word above his name that catches the complete beat poet mentality to life. "Onward!"
Onward I go.
I'd like to thank the Bristol family for funding my travels, Ginny for responding to my emails so quickly, Jesse for his emotional support and my mother for answering the phone at 3am whenever I have a stupid question or an irrational freak out.
Project wise, it's been really really incredible. I've met poets from all over the world, recorded them and created friendships with them. I love this aspect of my fellowship because it encompasses both work and social life. I meet a poet, and it's like we're already friends. The bad part is, of course, that departing is doubly difficult. My countries have changed since my initial project, and I have no doubt that they will keep changing. Poets have contacts all over the world- this makes touring easier. So when I got to australia, they insisted I go to New Zealand, France and England. And when I got to New Zealand they insisted I go to Northern Ireland, Scotland and Germany. etc etc etc. So I'm not really sure what's going on, or where I'll be or when... but it's kind of fun that way.
As far as luggage goes, I'm still convinced I'm carrying too much stuff. This is due to the dual nature of my personality, where I want to have my nice small wheeled suitcase so when I introduce myself to poets at the airport/train station/whatever, I don't look like some crazy backpacker. But at the same time, I don't want to get rid of my backpack because, well, it's just so handy. I keep sending home boxes of clothes/things I don't need and I don't know why I took them in the first place. I've given away lots of clothes too, which makes everything lighter and easier to handle.
Financially, things could be better. The depressing state of the US dollar impacts those of us that are traveling the most, especially when we're traveling to countries that should have a good exchange rate. This essentially means I'm paying 5 dollars for a cup of coffee when I should be paying 3. I know I shouldn't think of it like that, but it's hard not to. I've been couchsurfing a lot, which is great because poets are such wonderful hosts and it saves me money too! But I am visiting mostly first world countries, and let's face it, lots of money is necessary. So I'm considering cutting down on a few countries and living off of fruit. Just kidding about that last part.
So how's it been? In short, it's been different. After the initial 3 month honey moon stage wore off, I think I really began to see what kind of trip it was I was actually embarking on. Sure the documentary is important, but there's this whole other level of things going on internally that weren't being recorded. A friend of mine suggested I start turning the camera on myself as well, to capture some of this struggle. Struggle? yeah, I know. I could be working a desk job in Boston right now. But believe it or not, traveling alone causes some struggle. There's no way to know if you're making the right call on future plans. There's no one to bounce your ideas off of. There's no one to remind you what hemisphere you're in when you wake up all disoriented at 3pm on someone's couch. There's no one there to guard your stuff while you pee. It's just you and the open road/sea/airways. It's exactly what I've always wanted.
Some one recently asked me "what makes you so brave?"
I laughed real hard and almost choked on some lettuce.
Is this bravery we're talking about? Or is it luck? Is it just simply feeding my quasi-insane mentality where I go a little nuts whenever I stay in one place for too long?
Maybe it's a little of everything.
About 2 years before he died, I had the pleasure of meeting Beat poet, Robert Creeley. We chatted for a bit, and he signed my book. I've always liked his poetry, for the influence that travel and love and memory play in his work. Years later, after his death, I found that book again, and re-read what he wrote to me. A single word above his name that catches the complete beat poet mentality to life. "Onward!"
Onward I go.
uh oh
I left Wellington in a rush. I was due back in Auckland for a guerrilla poetry chalking.
That's when things started getting messy.
It was raining in Auckland when I arrived.
Apparently, my cell phone knew this, and opted to stay in bed. In Wellington. Without me.
And being without my cell phone for one day has made me realize that I am one of those sad people who has an intense relationship with her phone. And suddenly, I feel half empty, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm lost...
Thank god for priority shipping. Sheesh.
That's when things started getting messy.
It was raining in Auckland when I arrived.
Apparently, my cell phone knew this, and opted to stay in bed. In Wellington. Without me.
And being without my cell phone for one day has made me realize that I am one of those sad people who has an intense relationship with her phone. And suddenly, I feel half empty, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm lost...
Thank god for priority shipping. Sheesh.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Rainy Days
When it rains in New Zealand, it's like that hazy thin white cloud that hovers above the island descends rapidly gaining density. In wellington, it creates a gusty fog over the water, making the mountains in the horizon blend with the water so you can't see where the water ends and the sky begins. I've been told by many writers that New Zealand is a literary country, but I never quite understood why until that day when I woke up to a view of haze anover the dark green capital city. Its one of those days where you want to stay in bed or go to a cafe, curl up on a comfy sofa, sip some chai (or a ristretto,in my case) and read a good book. For some, this is an excuse to get away from the "real world" of work and deadlines. How lucky I am, then, that reading a goo dbook is actually part of my work. I scanned bookshelf after bookshelf, pulling out books that interested me and carried them to the cafe where I sat for hours and hours reading.
I find that the key to writing well is to read good books- to fill one's mind with true art and craftful words. Just as a Jazz musician puts on records of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Bird Parker, so must a writer revert to her roots- Shakespearian sonnets, Whalt Whitman's leaves of Grass, James Joyce's Ulysses etc etc. But more than big names is the ability to identify authors that sing true to you and your personal quest: paulo Coelho, Jack Kerouac and any recommendations by dear frieds who understand me and my perspective, sometimes better than I do- these are the authors that light the spark in my mind.
And so I spend those rainy days the perfect way. Warm, dry and in the artful embrace between the pages of a very good book.
I find that the key to writing well is to read good books- to fill one's mind with true art and craftful words. Just as a Jazz musician puts on records of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Bird Parker, so must a writer revert to her roots- Shakespearian sonnets, Whalt Whitman's leaves of Grass, James Joyce's Ulysses etc etc. But more than big names is the ability to identify authors that sing true to you and your personal quest: paulo Coelho, Jack Kerouac and any recommendations by dear frieds who understand me and my perspective, sometimes better than I do- these are the authors that light the spark in my mind.
And so I spend those rainy days the perfect way. Warm, dry and in the artful embrace between the pages of a very good book.
Strangers as guides
It was only a few days ago I picked up Paulo Coelho's book at a bookstore, and randomly flipped open to a page to read what was in store for me. For me, Coelho's like that- a sort of guid who knows just what to say to push me back into the directive flow of the universe. And so, that day Coelho's travel advice was as follows: Avoid Museums. Go to Bars. Find real People. If you need a guide ask someone on the street. It may not work at first but by the end of the day, you'll have a devoted and loyal friend and guide.
These words flashed into my heas as I got off the bus. It was very clear I had overshot my destination - the Newtown Community and Culture Centre- but which direction did I need to go? So I took Coelho's advice and asked the first person I saw. To my surprise, he began to give me detailed directions, finally telling me to hop on the bus across the street. I dashed across the street, showed thank you, dodged two cars and got on the bus. The bus driver asked "where to?" and before I could reply (with a bunch of ums and uhhs) the young man followed me onto the bus and told the driver for me. He sat down on the seat next to me, smiled sheepishly and explained that it was not the nicest neighborhood and he just wanted to make sure I got there alright.
And we got there alright. An hour before the reading started. I saw a small pub across the street and insisted that I buy him a beer. Ofer a drink we chatted, I talked about my project and he asked me questions about the states. At the end of the hour we walked over to the poetry reading. THe audience was a small collection of locals, and I felt a bit strange and out of place. It's probably the most uncomfortable I've ever felt at a poetry reading so far. I'm not sure why. Thee people who got up and spoke were definitely portraying the community accurately. People from various backgrounds read and although I read too and received warm applause, I still couldn't help but feel like an intruder.
My guide, however, left the performance seemingly invigorated. "so what'd ya think?" he asked. I told him I thought it was interesting but the more important question was- what did HE think?
We parted ways at the end of the night, and I caught the bus back to my hotel, crawled into bed poised to write something, then gave up- suddenly exhausted- and fell asleep.
These words flashed into my heas as I got off the bus. It was very clear I had overshot my destination - the Newtown Community and Culture Centre- but which direction did I need to go? So I took Coelho's advice and asked the first person I saw. To my surprise, he began to give me detailed directions, finally telling me to hop on the bus across the street. I dashed across the street, showed thank you, dodged two cars and got on the bus. The bus driver asked "where to?" and before I could reply (with a bunch of ums and uhhs) the young man followed me onto the bus and told the driver for me. He sat down on the seat next to me, smiled sheepishly and explained that it was not the nicest neighborhood and he just wanted to make sure I got there alright.
And we got there alright. An hour before the reading started. I saw a small pub across the street and insisted that I buy him a beer. Ofer a drink we chatted, I talked about my project and he asked me questions about the states. At the end of the hour we walked over to the poetry reading. THe audience was a small collection of locals, and I felt a bit strange and out of place. It's probably the most uncomfortable I've ever felt at a poetry reading so far. I'm not sure why. Thee people who got up and spoke were definitely portraying the community accurately. People from various backgrounds read and although I read too and received warm applause, I still couldn't help but feel like an intruder.
My guide, however, left the performance seemingly invigorated. "so what'd ya think?" he asked. I told him I thought it was interesting but the more important question was- what did HE think?
We parted ways at the end of the night, and I caught the bus back to my hotel, crawled into bed poised to write something, then gave up- suddenly exhausted- and fell asleep.
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