8/31/2008

Tucson 1, or Arrival Post

A poet picked me up in Phoenix and brought me down to Tucson, where I jumped out of the car and literally walked into my gig. I had about 10 minutes to prepare, and it went over awesomely. People oohed, they ahhed, they clapped, cried, cheered and bought merchandise...it was a super excellent gig.

More on that later. For now, sleeps.

8/30/2008

Los Angeles 3, or How Am I Not Panicking?

Who would've thunk that both the 11:40pm and 1:30am buses to Tucson, Arizona would be full?

I'm holding a ticket for a 9am bus that puts me in the Tucson bus station just as my feature is supposed to start.

I'm on a far-flung notion that maybe, maybe there are poets in Phoenix who would want to come to the Tucson slam that I could get off in Phoenix and drive down with...it's a long shot, but I'm working on it.

The good news is that I'm totally not panicking. Go me! Also go Greg, my friend who is cheerfully putting me up for one more night and waited with me in the (brand new, totally not-sketchy, well-lit and full-of-people) downtown bus station.

8/29/2008

Los Angeles 2, or Excerpts from Correspondence

From C, far away in Puerto Rico:

"We paddled to the opposite side of the lake and turned around for the most picturesque moment imaginable. The moon peaked up gradually through the densely interwoven branches. It was so many layers of beautiful piled one on top of the other. The moon, the silhouetted mangrove trees, the serenity of a secluded bay brought alive by the playful kyakers splashing around in amazement. Wonder filled the moment.

"'Que romantico,' I thought, but as soon as I thought it, I realized that I didn't want you. I wanted for you. I don't know if any of your tongues have subjunctives, but I knew them before anyone taught me how to call it. Subjunctive is a construction for dreams, for desires, for aspirations. Irreducible and untranslatable, there are many tenses for possibility in Spanish. This one is forged out of unpredictability of the future an galvanized in hope. What is special about the subjunctive amid the myriad of possibilities is that the subject must be different from the object. It is the way you want something for someone else that is entirely different from how you want something for yourself. It is the opposite of agency, wanting something for someone that you acknowledge is not yours to give.

"I wanted that night for you in way that I've only wanted things for children. In the way that I want for my brother. In the way that I want for my sangha*. It's the purest intention I know how to feel. And I wish I could say I wanted Seattle for you in that same way. Or else I wish I could honestly say I wanted Brattleboro for you. But all I can say is that I love you. That I want you. I want you with me. And despite myself, I want to make you happy.

"I want to know more about this place, about how supportive the community can be, about how right it feels. Maybe I can learn to wish it for you, but I can't guarantee you I won't be sad in the meantime?

Chlirissa"

*sangha = "Buddhist term for a community made up of all people who are seeking liberation, regardless of which path they are following to get there" ~C

And from my reply:

"The subjunctive is my favorite tense, too. I remember learning it in the worst French class I ever took, with the dreadful Madame Pizzi. She was a short woman with perfectly coiffed hair, and she hated the French 3 Honors class with venom. She also taught Spanish, and was rumored to favor her Spanish kids over her French ones. But the one thing she praised me for the entire year was my quick mastery of le subjonctif.

"See, I knew the subjunctive years before I started learning other languages. My grandparents speak in it constantly, and my childhood is filled with "Dana, I want you should do your homework, right now!" and "Dandoo, do you want I should make you some snack?" and "Girls, I want you should stop that right now!" Using it takes the bite out of a scolding like nothing else.

"She taught me what it meant to obey out of love rather than fear - I thought it might somehow hurt her if she were ever really forced to yell at me like my parents, so I listened. In that way, we developed a relationship that was almost symbiotic, to this place where it hurts me to leave her more than my mother. My father cut my mother and me apart when I was born, but somehow, the cords between Mammy and me were left to grow. We're like tomatoes and ivy that managed to share the same fence over the years - intertwined.

"I had no idea I felt this way about the subjunctive, but I almost started crying reading your letter here in some Seattle coffee shop. And I feel the same way, wanting for you the happiness that won't come for some time. My mother (and others) keep reminding me that if things are meant to be, they will be. But I've never believed in that kind of fate, that kind of acceptance. I've grown to believe we make our own magic, and without a chance to work at it, then we might as well say goodbye. Oh, don't be scared, darlin, I don't plan on saying goodbye to you. I'm just frustrated.

"But the subjonctif, subjuntivo, that's a kind of work, nu? A kind of magic-making, in the realms of prayer and intentions and dreams. Maybe that's where you will exist for me for the next while - in my dreams, the world of wanting for.

"I want to write a poem based on your letter, with whole chunks of it lifted almost verbatim. I want to post this exchange on my blog so everyone can see how smart and beautiful we are. Mostly, I want to climb to the roof of my grandmother's garage (where I spent most of my childhood) and sit there, relishing your letter over and over again until she comes out to tell me she wants I should set the table.

Love, oh, so much,
~D

8/27/2008

Los Angeles 1, or Arrival Post

Sorry there wasn't an arrival post from Oakland, but I was there for less than twenty four hours, so I didn't really have the chance. Oakland was lovely, and full of a small house with a big and generous kitchen, two cats, a turtle, some fish and chickens in the back yard. There were also snuggles and talks and tea and sunsets and fresh vegetables.

Today was a bus ride that was about the length of the drive from Connecticut to Canada. Except it was all in one state. And here I am, in LA, in another place that is more like home than many others. It occurs to me that I'm getting to see all this extended family without my parents for the first time. We've been talking a lot of family history, contemporary family news too. I'm the Pony Express, bringing the latest from the East coast via Amtrak and Greyhound and yesterday's phone calls.

8/25/2008

Santa Rosa 2, or Catching Up - Snapshots from Seattle

This is the entry where I write about all the things I said I was going to.

Snapshot
Aliyah invites me out to the little suburb where her parents are, an hour and a half outside Seattle. We're doing an odd switch soon - me heading out here, and her heading to Princeton. Perhaps our parents will adopt us. I've already invited her for Rosh Hashannah. She says we'll go blackberry picking when I come, and I envision a back yard, a small trail, wading through the thorns and coming away with a fistful.

Not so much. I've forgotten that blackberries are a parasite. Aliyah picks me up at the bus and we go park at a farm with a bike path running next to it. The path is lined with bushes, dense brambles and big, sloppy berries, so different from the ones at home. After half an hour of picking, we have enough for two pies. We sing as we go, songs I haven't sung since college - Dar and Arlo and Angel from Montgomery. We find an index card tied to a bramble with e.e. cummings quotes on it, and a wish for a happy lunar eclipse, Aug. 16, 2008. We take it home with us. Aliyah's little white dog will do tricks for green berries. I make him dance and beg, the cutie. He tries to pick a fight with the big farm dog on the other side of the fence, who looks almost amused.

Aliyah's house is exactly what I imagined - small, full of animals and bright colors and on the end of the road. We make eggplant curry with rice noodles, and I make a blackberry pie that's really more of a blackberry soup with crust. It goes well over ice cream and giggling over geeky religion jokes at the kitchen table. Her parents offer to adopt me while I'm getting settled.

Snapshot
In Seattle, there are two poetry teams - adult and youth. The adult team will admit by and large that the youth team is stronger than they are, but just for fun, the youth team has organized a head-to-head battle between the two, complete with judges and hip-hop showcases. Ela's picked to be a judge, and Maya becomes the sacrifice, and we're all so excited. When we get there, the venue is great, and there are no chairs. We sit on the floor, watching the youth team come in. They remind me so much of BCHSJS - old Hebrew school buddies - with their cuddle piles and obvious love for one another. It's an angsty, drama-laden love, but I'd be hard pressed to hear better cheering from the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. They shout in unison, long rounds of "Youth Speaks Seattle ain't nothin to fuck with!"

The competition is head-to-head, which is simpler than a normal slam: each team sends up one poem, then the judges decide which one they liked better in the round. at the end of six rounds, there's a tie. The adults embarrass themselves in the final round by being too drunk to remember their poem, while the youth team puts up a tight, well-rehearsed and well-written piece. Half the crowd leaves before the judges make their decision. Ela and Maya say I can become a youth mentor when I move here. Hey, if poet El Dia has made her life teaching poetry to young people, why can't I do it?

Snapshot
I receive the most beautiful love letter I've ever read. I don't have permission to share excerpts from it here yet, but I'm working on it. At my feature in Snohomish, I read it, and the letter I responded with as my cover piece. When I'm finished, I look up. Everyone's bright-eyed and smiling, and I'm half-proud, half-delighted, and full of how can I move 3,000 miles from this? I too, have daydreams.

8/24/2008

Santa Rosa 1, or The Weather in Wine Country

Johnny picks me up at the bus stop in downtown Santa Rosa and we go up all the impossibly steep hills to his house. I remember once again how crazy scary those roads are, how I wish I'd learned to drive on them so they wouldn't seem so big. My cousin Jordie does it, all the kids here do. And they don't get ice or snow, I remind myself. Ice on a hill like that could kill anyone.

For today, it's just Johnny, Alex and me. Alex is 16 now, and doesn't believe in speaking in more than two words at a time. I cheerfully call him 'toad', which he doesn't mind, and Johnny cracks up. We eat lunch in their giant kitchen with the view of the mountains. Being up top the crazy hill has its perks. Afterwards, Johnny and Alex go play tennis, and I'm left to relax with the cats and all the luxuries of the house: hot shower, good books, the sun-warmed stones by the backyard swimming pool.

I'm in the middle of talking to C when they come back. She's not a happy camper right now; pretty much nothing is going right, and I'm one of those things. I can't make it better from 3000 miles away. I feel a little like my mom must've when I called from Prague, mewling and puking over the loneliness of it all.

Johnny offers to take me on a drive through some wine country at sunset, and we'll grab a bite at this great Italian place he knows. Alex is going to the movies with friends. It sounds perfect. We take the red convertible. How does he not stall out on the hills? It's magic. He shows me everything I want to see without asking: the kids' elementary school where his wife started a garden program that ran for years, tiny houses tucked into enormous gardens, his favorite vineyard, covered in flowers. We sneak grapes from the vines on the side of the driveway, and giggle over the ridiculous descriptions of the wines. "A nice bouquet of grapefruit and lemongrass with a hint of butter," indeed.

All the while, we're talking family history. He fills in the gaps in my stories, I fill in the gaps in his. He talks about his parents by their first names; I talk about my grandparents with theirs. We've never talked like this before with one another, but it's familiar conversation. We talk about how immigration is the big unspoken issue-du-jour in our family, and it just might convince certain (ahem) family members to vote for McCain. I say we should have more outrage about the fence along the border. We talk about being allowed to stay silent because we've made it - we pass as white, we're wealthy, there's no more fear. I don't say that I still believe that this could turn on us very, very quickly. He talks about the pressure to go to college, get as many higher degrees as possible - he holds a Masters - to ensure family success. I've never had that pressure. Expectation? Sure. But no one ever sat me down and told me I had to have a career at the end of college. No one objected to this trip. It's a different world for me, the one they hoped for. Johnny says he's proud he contributed to that safety and luxury for me.

Dinner is excellent, and filling. We come home just after dark and watch Olympics for an hour, until we're both crashing. I only got 3 hours of sleep on the train, and have pushed myself to stay up this far.

That Australian diver guy who won the gold appears in my dreams, on the other side of a fence I do nothing to tear down.

8/23/2008

Martinez, 1, or Train Travels/Strange Bedfellows

Below this is the entry I wrote after just getting off the train, but first I wanted to make note of where I am. I'm waiting for a bus in Martinez, CA, at the only open coffee place in town (the wireless is courtesy of the town library). The coffee place is full of old-guy regulars, really bare-bones kind of place with terrible chai and good brew coffee. The breakfast burrito is spicy enough. The walls are covered with postcards and letters from Marines. Seems like someone at this place spends most of their time sending coffee care packages to Iraq. I think about an ex-sailor I know who once got beat up in a public bathroom by a radical antiwar punk because she was wearing her uniform. I think, "that is not my kind of protest." I wish I had some coffee to send the Marines.

And now, the promised train entry. More on Seattle when I get to Santa Rosa.

As I boarded the train in Seattle, the porter promised me that I could have the window seat once we reached Portland, where my seatmate would be getting off. My seatmate, as it turned out, had a 4-month old with her, and spent the majority of her time in the observation car, teaching the baby about rivers and mountains. I took advantage of the extra seat and slept, curled sideways in a position my back and hips would later woefully regret.

I woke up in Portland; that is to say, I was awakened by a pixie of a woman standing over me and saying, “Um, hi, I think I’m your seatmate…” I sat up groggily, clumsily pulling all my stuff over to the window. “Oh, you like Anne Lamott? We’re going to be best friends!” she exclaimed, noticing the book under my pillow. Satisfied, she plopped herself into the empty seat and introduced herself. Within minutes were talking like friends, joking and teasing one another with the kind of instant bond I’ve seen happen between kindergarteners. She and I hung out for the rest of the 24 hour ride – she even defended my seat from a completely innocent old lady who’d been assigned to my spot. Once again, I left the train ride with a new number in my phone.

(The last number I’d left with had come from the Minneapolis-Seattle ride, and belonged to a stripper from North Dakota who was going try and make it in the big city. While riding down California, I got an ecstatic text message from her: “I GOT A JOB!”)

Also on this ride was the woman who was seven months pregnant and could smell the gum another passenger was unwrapping six rows away. She and I hung out in the snack car talking about babies and how the medical establishment treats women’s bodies – as unpredictable, dangerous entities that require constant monitoring and intervention. She admitted to being something of a hypochondriac, otherwise she’d totally have her baby at home. As it was, she was moving to Los Angeles to live with her boyfriend and his family, who she “cared about” but didn’t love. “But,” she added, “I love my baby more than I don’t love my boyfriend, and I want Daniel to grow up with the kind of tight, loving family that I never had. Hence, Los Angeles.” She’s half-Jamaican, half-Greek, and raised Jewish (!!) Neither of her parents were Jewish but decided it was a good religion to raise kids with. Go figure. My seatmate’s got some Yiddishkeit in her too.

I’m reminded of Abby’s song wherever you go, there’s always someone Jewish….

There’s also a Mormon Elder on the train, looking like he’s fresh out of missionary boot camp. He looks at me when I come down the aisle in my socks, Birkenstocks, long skirt, Rogue River sweatshirt and flyaway hair as though he’s thinking it’s not even worth it to try to save me.

This time, I remember to eat more. My seatmate brought hummus, pita chips and carrot sticks and insisted on feeding me much the way I insisted on feeding my seatmate en route from Minneapolis. Karma, I guess.

Night comes, and my seatmate asks if she can lean on me while we sleep, since I have the window. Twenty minutes later, I wake up because my arm is numb – her head is in my lap, and she’s clamped onto my forearm like a koala bear. I spend the rest of the night sleeping in half hour shifts, her sleepy body following mine with every twist and turn. But it’s worth it to be up at 5:30 in the morning, to watch the sun come over California’s corn and baby cows, calling C in Puerto Rico to hear about her triumphs and her troubles as the sky turns into a full blown sunrise rainbow.

8/21/2008

Seattle 4, or a poemdraft

More travel tales to come soon. Remind me to write about blackberries in Olympia, the Battle of the Ages, the subjonctif, and making friends on the train. In the meantime, this is what came out of writing class on Monday:

Can you imagine anything more scary?
Sure, I can.
When I was ten, I built worlds out of of twigs,
moss and discarded potato chip bags with
Jan Roncevic on the loser side of the field
at recess.

We worked through lunch hour
like we had ant-sized contractors crawling
up our ankles and threatening to bite
if we didn't finish the intergalactic
hollow tree transport network
by the time the late bell rang.

On my breaks, I rolled fruit leather cigarettes
while Jan wrote out the city's constitution
in Morse code,
and I built Hell next to the basketball courts,
out of spruce sap
and icicles, pretended each one
held my grandmother, or my father
and I was only allowed to melt one
with my bare hands.

When the yard teacher caught me
crying without my mittens,
she told us we weren't allowed to talk about Hell,
so I learned to make those choices in silence,
without consultation,
packing frostbite into my fingertips
like remorse.

8/19/2008

Seattle 3, or Decisions, Decisions

What my mother and maybe some others don't understand is that it was never really a choice. It was supposed to be Minneapolis. I was supposed to fall in love with Minneapolis like I fell in love with Massachusetts, the kind of love that makes me think my feet will never get tired of its streets, and I'll dance to its traffic and birdsongs for years without getting bored.

And, as we already know, that didn't happen so much.

And so I'm here, a place where my feet could learn to love the hills, and my lungs could learn to love ocean mist. This time, it's not about the comfort of the ground, but the capacity to grow out of it.

Queer writing class, in case you couldn't tell, was excellent. I've got a new poem, and some crucial edits on another one. The community is strong, welcoming. Being friends with Maya and Ela doesn't hurt.

And I've decided to move here.

...and Mammy will be incredibly sad. damnit.
...and I won't get to know what it would've been to really date C, and love her in person. damnit.
...
and I'll spend these years like college, visiting my family only on special holidays. damnit
...and there will be a thousand new languages to negotiate. damnit

...but it probably won't be worse than Prague!

8/18/2008

Seattle 2, or You Asked For It

I was going to update tomorrow, after I'd had the chance to go to queer performance poetry class, and maybe the Wednesday night poetry battle (like a slam, but with pre-selected teams of poets), and my feature at Jack's on Thursday. But since you want to hear...

...I spent the weekend hanging out at Maya and Ela's beautiful apartment. We worked on poems, watched lightning storms across the valley, and watched Star Wars. (Yeah, Dad and Eyore, Star Wars. I'm not kidding.) They have an extra bedroom with a big bed, and the most comfortable post-futon couch I've ever had the luxury of sitting on.

Staying with two cooks means the eating is good, and I'm not allowed in the kitchen, which I pretend is just fine by me. No, really, it is. They're better cooks than I am and I've never had trouble rolling over for a good eggplant-avocado-fried onion-tomato-and-melted-cheese sandwich. Or sauteed eggplant with mushrooms and wild rice. Seriously. I'm more than making up for the two and a half days of granola bars on the train.

I'm making the official decision after queer poetry class tonight, but:

I think I'm going to move here.

8/16/2008

Seattle 1, or Arrival

I'm so inexplicably glad to be here. Last time I visited Seattle, I had a great time, but left with a kind of certainty that I didn't want to live here. But something's changed. I'm not sure what.

My father pointed out the other day that I seek relationships that involve conflict. I wonder if that was my issue with Minneapolis - I could see myself getting lazy there.

Seattle, on the other hand, has no shortage of conflict. Plus, I'm going to a writing class on Monday night specially for queer performance poets. How amazing is that?

More later.

8/15/2008

Montana 1, or Hi From The Train!

The advantage to being stopped for refueling is that there's internet! Yay!

I've discovered that train travel is by far my very favorite kind. I woke up at 6:15 this morning, after a night of cat napping, and stared out the window for a good hour and a half, completely riveted at the landscape changing subtly under the shifting sun.

And I befriended a photographer. And some small children. And apparently, many many wedding guests. Olympia, WA, get ready to be wedding-ed out.

8/14/2008

Minneapolis 4, or In Which I Become Famous

"...a wild-haired poet named Dane took the fiery crowd at Mercury on a trip to Israel, hushed them with her quiet words, and then departed with the simple appreciation of a small yellow flower."

Found: http://www.thedailypage.com/daily/article.php?article=23449

Tonight, I leave for Seattle on my first long-distance train ride. How awesome is that? I'll post when I get there!

8/13/2008

Minneapolis 3, or Things Of A Puzzling Nature

Here's a haiku I wrote today:

Minneapolis:
You rock so hard on paper.
Why don't I love you?

That pretty much sums up everything I've felt here. All the components for an Excellent Living Place are here: huge farmer's market, secure lefty politics, good poets, winter, good public transportation and the beautiful lakes/art/independent bookstores/etc. Tonight, I gave my feature at the charming Kieran's Irish Pub, and was warmly received by all 12 people. They even bought merchandise! I think I sold five or six books, and a fistful of bumper stickers. Someone even paid with a two dollar bill! I don't remember the last time I saw one of those.

Dear Minneapolis,
Where's the chemistry? I was feeling more groovy with Chicago than with you, and let me tell you, I did not expect to feel that. We've got two more days. Let's try to make this work, okay?
Tentative love,
~Dane

8/12/2008

Minneapolis 2, or A Quick Pic


Hey, check it out! A poet named Evan got a picture of me being a poet! (For the record, the shirt reads, "Don't Touch My Hair!" and I got it here. The link shows what's on the back of the shirt. I got so many compliments on it, and it led me to meet many people with awesome hair (as well as a bunch of buzzed and bald folks who think there should be a "Yes, I'm bald, no you can't rub my head" shirt.) I should also point out that I wasn't having a great hair night on the night this was taken.

This is me "sacrificing", by the way. In every poetry slam, there is one poet who performs without being part of the competition, to warm up the judges. They call it the sacrificial poet. I got to sacrifice twice, in addition to reading at multiple open mics and competing in two side slams for unaffiliated poets (did horribly in both of them). I love sacrificing, though - all the audience and none of the pressure!

8/10/2008

Minneapolis 1, or On Being A Guest

In my last post, I called poets my mishpacha, my family. In less than a week, I've added a new stop to my trip (Salt Lake City, Utah), found places to stay in Denver/Boulder and Atlanta, shared heartbreak and history with new friends and renewed friendships that began five months ago in Detroit, or a year ago in Austin.

Poetry and poets have brought me to yet another place I'd have never traveled to otherwise, and given me the security I need to be traveling for so long.

And here I am in Minneapolis, with my other mishpacha. The ones I'm connected to by blood and legalities. The other group of people in my life that have offered me everything I could possibly want with hardly a request to motivate them. I love this family, and, like the poets, I only get to see them once a year.

So why do I feel kind of lonely right now?

B&T are about halfway between my and my parents' ages, and have two small kids. The kids don't know me well enough to really want to play with me yet - the little one shies away when i bend down to talk to him, and the big one just gets quiet and big-eyed. B&T won't let me do dishes. Yet, they're parents of young kids, so we don't really get to talk without interruption. I feel like I'm just creating more work for them, when I wish I could just jump into their rhythm and do dishes, help the kids with their baths, etc. And yet, B&T are treating me like more of a grown-up than anyone else in my family and giving me plenty of space and resources. And I appreciate that, too.

Not for the first time, I wish I wasn't traveling alone.

In other news, I sold two books at Nationals, and gave a whole bunch away. This makes me happy.

(M&P, you haven't seen this book. I didn't want to show it to you because I thought some of the poems in it would upset you, which is kind of dumb, seeing as you have yet to faint away in despair at any of my work. Ask Mom to show it to you, if you like.)

In other other news, I have a professional website now. Check it out! All the amazing photography is courtesy of my sister, who will doubtlessly one day be one of the world's most elite paparazzi.

Madison 3, or The Departure Post

The poets brought me here, and it's poets who will help me leave. The Minneapolis team was kind enough to offer me a ride out, which leaves in a few minutes.

Nationals was like taking a bath of really hot and really cold water that don't quite ever mix. Some parts of it were magical, and beautiful and full of writing prompts, and other parts made me feel like my insides were breaking. Rachel McKibbens is my new favorite poet. I have places to stay in every city I'm traveling to, officially. There's a new stop on the tour: Salt Lake City, Utah.

Poets, you are mishpacha, every one of you.

8/08/2008

Madison 2, or A New Poem That Has Come Out of Nats

Guidebook for My Daughter

Don't be afraid to cook extravagant meals on nights when you're home alone.
Feel safe when you see spiders, for they are your kin.
Always use more hot sauce than anyone else at the table.
Push your voice to its farthest depths and hold it there until it stops struggling.
Smoke gas station cigarettes.
Paint a picture of who you want to be at eighty years old. Now draw a halo over it.
Wear boys' underwear and roll your button-downs past your elbows.
Reclaim Mozart and Mendelssohn, for they too are your kin.
Forgive your mama, for she knows not what she does. Tell her you will still brush her hair at night when you come back to visit.

Learn to find the pockets of home in foreign tongues.
Sing hymns like spiderwebs and bequeath them to star-laced hurricanes.
Don't hide when the lightning strikes.
Walk through the forests like barefoot thunder;
call on your grandmothers before you plead with their gods.
Test the limits of your skin
with safety pins and too much sunshine.

Fuck on your own terms, even if that means
you have to seduce him,
learn the weak places on every human body just in case,
let your body dictate boundaries like a heel
dragging through dirt to make a finish line and tell him:
this is where you stop.
Learn to speak eyebrows and fingertips,
use questions like chisels.
Carve those around you until you fit.
Stand on two feet when you kiss
your first lover so you can catch her
when she falls for you. Because you,
my daughter, you are irresistible.

8/05/2008

Madison 1, or The Arrival Post

I made it to Nationals courtesy of the Ozark team, which picked me up in the middle of a gigantic lightning storm at O'hare International Airport, and then fed me and gave me a nice cool place to stay for the night before heading out to Madison this morning. Already, I'm crazy excited - there are good poets everywhere, like a family reunion of prophets and jesters.

More later!

8/04/2008

Chicago 2, or Days and Knights in Gotham


I once commented on this blog that I don't write much when I'm having a good time. I hope you all remembered this, and have subsequently rejoiced at the lack of updates. Tonight, I'm heading out towards Madison with the slam team from the Ozarks, who are driving up from Arkansas today, and swinging through Chicago tonight. But before that, my sister is taking me to an American Tribal Style bellydance class, which should be excellent (my teacher, Donna Mejia, has great respect for ATS, therefore, it must be awesome).

My sister lives in a dorm that's more like a pseudo studio. The ceilings are very high, which is neat, and the place is divided into two sections. One section contains just two beds and three desks, for Liora and her roomate. Then, the second section, which is divided off from the first, contains a galley kitchen, a bathroom right across from it, and a loft bed above the bathroom, where I'm sleeping. Quite luxurious for someone who was prepared to sleep on the floor!

Liora's been a most excellent host - far better than I ever did in Prague or Northampton, I'm sure. She got me free entrance to the Chicago History Museum, where she works, and I spent the better part of a day happily entranced by their exhibits. I especially enjoyed their attention the riots in '68, and the Haymarket riot. I realized Chicago has been really groundbreaking in terms of radical politics. I also stared at a four-paneled painting titled "Leather Night at the Gold Coast" for at least half an hour.

The picture, which depicts five youngish men outside a 70s gay bar, was mounted on the outside walls of the actual Gold Coast club in Chicago, and painted by the boyfriend of the owner of the club. After the club was raided, a police officer suggested to the owner that having a woman in the picture would deter future raids. The artist did add a woman, who now hovers between two of the men. Her legs are hidden behind a motorcycle, giving her the impression of a ghost. It's a fantastic piece of queer history, and seeing it mounted on the wall of such a mainstream museum (whose focus, while queer-friendly, is not queer-specific) felt triumphant.

Then, Liora took me to see Dark Knight, which I initially protested, but I'm glad we went. I'm not an action movie person, but I enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance as much as the next guy. But the best part was walking out of the movie towards the big touristy Navy Pier, and realizing that Chicago IS Gotham, Batman's fictional home. I'd always been told it was New York, but I think that might be the New York ego at work, rather than a reflection of the city's vibe.

In the middle of it all, I miss her. C haphazardly sauntered into my life back in June, and despite knowing how soon I was leaving, we decided to let ourselves fall in love anyway. There are no promises, no vows, no future. But I love her as much as I did last week, and I miss her from the forefront of my thoughts to the pit of my stomach. We talk almost every day. She tells me what she remembers from her trips to Chicago: vegan cafes and youth activism and street art, and I wish she were here. It's always easier to be brave and adventurous with someone like her around.

And then there was the food. Oych, have we eaten well. From fancy, creative sushi to Chicago's famous deep dish pizza, I've eaten like I'm preparing for hibernation. I'd write more about the food, but there's so much more to talk about...

...like photos. I had asked Liora if she would be willing to take some pictures of me to put on a new, professional website I'm working on. She happily obliged, and we took pictures in the art studio on the 17th floor of her building, and in Millennium Park just a few blocks away.

Finally, I'd like to talk about the poetry. Last night, I went to the Green Mill, the home and beginnings of the slam, where Marc Smith, the construction worker that invented the slam format, still hosts the show. I did horribly in the slam because of a few doozy judges, but I was in the company of several excellent poets who scored badly, so I didn't mind at all. The crowd is a tough one in Chicago - they heckle the performers as though they were at a dog fight instead of a poetry reading. But I know that the poets with the roughest exteriors are usually the sweetest ones underneath, so it didn't faze me much. Additionally, I met and found several poets I already knew who are heading to Madison tomorrow, and they were as kind as anything.

See you in Madison!