Is all this necessary?

I've neglected this blog. In it's neglect, however, my project has continued to evolve at a rapid pace. Returning to the US has caused certain hurdles for me, but also, in a beautiful, underhanded way, has given me incredible opportunities. I've moved to Washington DC, my self-proclaimed "home for now". This city is an odd place, filled with transient businessmen in suits, where your job not only defines what you do, but what kind of person you are and most importantly, your level of worth. Being placed in this position, constantly asked by acquaintances and strangers "What do you do?" and having to quickly judge whether I give them my official job title (Youth Outreach), or rather a description of who I am (Artist) has had an incredible impact on my daily life. I feel torn between these two sides of my personality (my mother, asking "you're not planning on doing poetry *forever* are you?"; my international friends begging me to get on stage more often)

Returning to the US has given me great opportunities. I have a lot of "things" now. I have an apartment, two jobs, a boyfriend, a graduate school and (gulp) a sketchy outline of a two-year plan. I have stability. And there's a great sense of contentment that washes over me, and i imagine, most others who have achieved this sort of stability. When I tell people what I have done, they almost invariably make some remark about how "brave" I am. But to me, it is much scarier to be complacent and washed every day with this overwhelming waves of dull happiness. The kind of happiness that comes with routine, security, well-marked paths. The kind of happiness when everything goes to plan. That dull aching happiness, much like eating too much delicious gourmet food, and taking a nap, belly full. This kind of happiness is dangerous to me, because it's addictive, and I think it also calmly coaxes us in soft motherly voice "Don't change. Don't take an adventure. Don't risk losing what you have." I miss the happiness of adventure, of pure reckless abandon. The wild, senseless happiness you feel after realizing you've fallen in love. The gnawing insatiable happiness that nips at your heels in the morning and purrs on your chest at night.

But, these are all just tangents of feelings. Returning to this country has allowed me to reflect on important questions about poetry, adventure, history and life. It's helped me discover not only who I am, but a bit about why we all are the way we are. Piecing together a mountain of stories, as I mentioned in my last post, has been no easy task. It's a desire to make sure that everyone is heard, ever voice validated, ever story fully sung out.

But these stories are more than voices and faces on the screen. These are stories that are still living and breathing, oceans and time differences away. Every so often, they re-surface with a friendly email received at some bizarre time of day, giving me a flood of tactile sensations from places I left long ago (has it really been so long?). Just a few nights ago, I had a great conversation with Renee Liang, a poet from New Zealand, who was interviewing me for this website:

http://www.thebigidea.co.nz/news/blogs/talkwrite/2009/jul/57936-slamtime-video/ (a pretty dope website for the Kiwi arts scene, regardless of the fact I'm in it. Check it out!)

Towards the end of our conversation, Renee asked me an interesting question: Why is poetry needed? You obviously can and should read my answer on that page, but I've been thinking about it the past few days some more. Why IS poetry needed? Why is deep language needed? In a culture like ours (American), it seems we can get by with advertisement copy that hints at sex, text messages instead of phone calls, facebook posts instead of emails, emails instead of letters, and twitter instead of blogs. Why the wordiness? Why the esoteric subjects? What's the point?

I'm not really sure how to answer that. Because whether or not it's "needed", it exists. Without reason, without logic, amidst today's fast paced, yuppy filled, sexy, recession savvy, tweet friendly, disaster of modern society, people still line up around the block every friday night in New York City to see poetry at the Nuyorican. They crowd bars in Sydney. They fill smokey ancient cafes to the brim in Vienna (making a certain scholar wonder fearfully, 'what would happen in case of fire?!'), cafes that were once frequented by philosophers, psuedo-psychologists and yes, poets. In Mexico City, the poets freestyle battle. In Casablanca, poetry hasn't lost it's sacred roots. Poets- dead and alive- still show their faces in Irish pubs.

When I first wrote my proposal for this entire project, way back in 2006, I asked myself the same question. I emailed all the poets I could get in contact with, asking them this important question. A young man, Inua "Phaze05" Ellams (http://www.phaze05.com) wrote back: "...wherever there is language and lungs, it will come." (Sadly, I couldn't stay in England long enough to connect in person with this amazing artist. I guess that gives me an excuse to go back...) He had a point-- we, the artists, like to think we're in control. We like to take credit for the movement we've created. But the fact of the matter is, we are just the vessels. Whether or not we, as individual artists exist, poetry will exist. It always has and always will.

Puzzle Pieces

I sit amongst the mountains of footage I collected over my year of travel. The tapes pile up, forming what looks like a jagged little city inside the box, along with various release forms, fliers, notes, business cards and train ticket stubs. I see pictures of friends from what seems like another world, or a dream. But it's a dream that affects my every day life-- I turn a corner and am reminded of Vienna. I hear a song, and am drawn back to Australia. I hear the smooth trill and flow of spanish and am taken to Mexico. And so on. I breathe it in, write it out.

I often liken the experience of traveling to cutting yourself open. The return and piecing back together the shattered bits is the hardest yet most interesting part. I had a similar experience when returning from Granada, Spain. Just as I did then, I shut myself away for a while, staring at my hands to remember the feeling of someplace far away. This time, however, it was my poetic voice that was shattered.

Being surrounded by so many amazing artists who were speaking of so many incredible things made me realize that we (as poets) have an incredible power. There's a reason that poetry is considered sacred-- it truly is a spiritual work. We are putting people in contact with each other and with themselves, and it's an art form that is desperately needed in Western society. So when I came home, I looked at myself, my writing, my film and my pictures and put them away. My voice was undergoing a transformation, and to regenerate itself. I needed time to absorb everything I had experienced.

No more than a month ago, I took that box back off the shelf, and dove into my memories. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that it hurt. It was painful, feeling pulled and tugged back into the nomadic instinct. Very often, I daydream of packing up whatever I can and go on my next adventure, perhaps to South America or Africa this time. I'd like to leave this little life I've created behind again, ditching the crappy economy, harsh American culture and the two jobs I work to pay my ever increasing DC rent.

But at the same time, there's work to be done. And I can do it here just as well as anywhere else. Poets need to start talking to each other. We're on to something very big and very important. And so I started talking about it. I started writing about it and now, finally, I dug deep into the recorded memories and started cutting together a film about it. I'll be airing it in episodes, but for now, you'll be able to access the preview/trailor and individual performances at www.youtube.com/speakfilm.