I hate reading in the bathtub. The problem is, I can't seem to stop doing it. Baths are stewing places, contained places, warm, but also full of skin cells and extraneous hair and regrets that, if you are like me and can't see well without your glasses, turn things a little murky. I never want to wash my face in a bath. But there's something calming about water, and if there isn't a lake around, the tub is the only place I can successfully read a book while partially submerged.
I only start to remember how much I hate doing this when my neck goes numb. Oh, I've tried plastic pillows, and propping rolled towels against the back of the tub, but within a few minutes, the same creeping iciness spreads outward from my spine. Not to mention, my feet are nearly burning, but the steam rising off my kneecaps makes me feel cold. My body isn't some waiflike thing, designed to complement waves. My body floats, though dense, lumpy thing that it is. Sometimes, I think it was designed for absorbing impact. My belly looks so inviting sometimes that small children think they can bonce on it.
And here I am with my latest book, Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray Love, a book that has been recommended to me countless times, and one I have been persistently refusing to read for that exact reason. I have an alarming tendency to do this - it took me three years (until it was actually assigned to me) before I read the Harry Potter Books, four before I read Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird, which I now ruthlessly recommend to every young writer in my life, and carry with me on difficult trips. Sometimes, I even run my fingers over its smooth paperback cover, feeling for the difference between the matte and glossy parts of the background like a rosary. I've got it mostly memorized. Maybe one day I'll record the dates of my children's births in it.
Suffice to say, I am sometimes a stubborn idiot.
This seems to be the case with Eat, Pray, Love. The truth is, I'm only reading it because my sister just got home from France, and she borrowed it from her friend just so I could read it. This is perhaps also an begrudging admission that my sister knows me better than I want her to, or at least better than I know her. All this to say, I found myself in the tub.
The first section of Gilbert's book chronicles her travels to Italy, in part to exclusively pursue real, genuine pleasure. Her experiences in Italy are the exact opposite of mine in Prague. To hear her tell it, she learned Italian with a little more than a few charming hiccups, was surrounded by friendly, engaging people who kvelled over their sports teams and favorite pizza shops (and insistently shared them with her), and wasn't particularly interested in sex. I want to hate her. It's in the same way I want to hate every movie that depicts someone luxuriating in a bathtub. How come they never see pieces of clipped fingernails floating by? How do they maintain a comfortable body temperature, or keep their necks and shoulders from seizing into Quasimodo impersonations?
The still, small voice inside me whispers, not unkindly, "Dane? Isn't it time to take a shower and get dressed already?"
Give me showers and waterfalls and rivers. Give me movement. Even the bright, angry scars on my left knee are demanding to be examined, to be tested. Give me travel. Get out of the tub. Get out of the house. Get out of the state. Get out of your flabby, injured body. Get out of your patterns. Get out of your schlump. Get out of here. Get out of here.
Or learn to make it work. Make waves in your bathtub. Take showers and read in patches of sunlight. Find the solid places for your feet. Give your scars permission to bleed a little. Take the information of your cousin's friend three states away who sometimes needs long-distance copy editing work done. Take your oldest younger cousin to the movies on Christmas Day. Tell the takeout Chinese guy you're a poet, when he asks. Tell everyone you're trying to make it work. Push aside the lingering thought that college was a giant waste. Cremate your suspicions of your unemployability.
Or, if this seems like too much for one day, run a hot shower and go read your book on the couch. At least you won't hurt your neck.
12/25/2008
12/23/2008
New Jersey 22, or Video!
DanePoetry now has a video page! Go forth, and enjoy! And happy (C)han(n)uk(k)a(h) to all those who are celebrating, happy Solstice to those who just passed, happy Kwanzaa and Merry Christmas, to those who have it coming.
12/19/2008
Boston 2, or A Letter Long Overdue
Readers of more recent times will recall that I received the most rich and warm rejection letter I'd ever seen. And, being the horribly immature poet and correspondent that I am, it has taken me until now to really re-visit it and address its concerns. Of course, once having done so, I had to completely revise one of the poems in question - a poem I had never completely thought "done", and was confirmed right. I could never perform this poem to my (or anyone else's) satisfaction, and this has been a completely refreshing experience. I offer you, readers, a copy of my reply letter, followed by the latest draft of the aforementioned poem.
Creator
Adam, do you remember our last
lesson in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers’ arms.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”
I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I remember the day I drew the line
between ocean and sky,
how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted
South America out of Africa’s arms
and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as she rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.
When I was finished, my unconvinced eyes
took in the strange, unfamiliar world before me.
I told myself:
it was good, it was good, it was…good?
My first real creation was that lie.
This world was one of fault lines
and gouged bodies
of water,
the scars of things torn and ripped
like your weeds.
I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.
You were an accident.
An unintended result
of an unexpected pleasure.
After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but some angel
dropped clay in my hands, like
an invitation to play. So I did.
While my hands worked
and collected thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way potters do,
asking, “What can you hold?”
I kneaded poetry into your veins.
It was as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth.
The only separations were your fingers.
I tried to teach you: you too, are a creator.
I wedged the burden of responsibility between your shoulders. ,
taught you to make distinctions, to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.
You learned first not to interfere
with the primordial love of mountains.
It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and I have no right to your forgiveness, but
I offer you this: you were right about the weeds.
Dear Debby,
It was awfully rude of me to not thank you right away for your incredible letter. I was so flattered that you, Marianne and the other editors spent so much time discussing my work! Really, thank you for putting that kind of time in for me.
I confess: your criticism, though constructive, did go unappreciated for some time. I had just finished my 7th major draft of "Creator" and wasn't ready to pick it up again. But as I sat down to write this, I thought about taking another look at your letter, and at the piece. Surely some of the tightening-up suggestions were right.
Twenty minutes later, I had a complete breakthrough about the piece. Marianne asked in the last letter: Why would G-d separate two continents that G-d had supposedly created to be fused? The question troubled me as much as it did Marianne, and also this: what was G-d really feeling guilty about, that G-d felt the need to apologize to Adam?
I'll spare you the labor pains of the story, and get right to the good part: G-d is feeling guilty because G-d is now being forced to admit that there is a GREATER creative force than G-dself: love. Think about it - throughout the piece's most powerful stanza, G-d interferes with the love of oceans, moons, sky, and land masses, a love that existed before G-d did. It's understandable that a young, arrogant creator to thinks they know best, and has that right to interfere.
But this is G-d's breakthrough, G-d's realization that G-d is not perfect. G-d is not all-knowing. G-d has acted in arroagance and ignorance - literally IGNORING the perfect love that surrounded G-d, much in the way Adam ignored the perfect surroundings G-d created for him! And that deserves an apology: I am not perfect. You didn't deserve to get as punished as you did simply by not being perfectly obedient. And I have no right to your forgiveness, one imperfect being to another, but I'm asking for it. I'm conceding that I was wrong.
Thank you, Debby. Thank Marianne, and all the other editors. It takes a talented group to push so perfectly. I hope you like the new draft. I think I'll do at least one more before I ask for it to be considered for publication, but I'd love to know what you think at this point.
Gratefully,
~Dane
Creator
Adam, do you remember our last
lesson in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers’ arms.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”
I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I remember the day I drew the line
between ocean and sky,
how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted
South America out of Africa’s arms
and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as she rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.
When I was finished, my unconvinced eyes
took in the strange, unfamiliar world before me.
I told myself:
it was good, it was good, it was…good?
My first real creation was that lie.
This world was one of fault lines
and gouged bodies
of water,
the scars of things torn and ripped
like your weeds.
I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.
You were an accident.
An unintended result
of an unexpected pleasure.
After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but some angel
dropped clay in my hands, like
an invitation to play. So I did.
While my hands worked
and collected thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way potters do,
asking, “What can you hold?”
I kneaded poetry into your veins.
It was as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth.
The only separations were your fingers.
I tried to teach you: you too, are a creator.
I wedged the burden of responsibility between your shoulders. ,
taught you to make distinctions, to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.
You learned first not to interfere
with the primordial love of mountains.
It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and I have no right to your forgiveness, but
I offer you this: you were right about the weeds.
12/17/2008
New Jersey 21, or Dear Universe
Dear Universe,
Okay. I get it. You really really REALLY don't want me to go to Seattle. So much so that you complicated my knee injury and actually ruptured my ACL AGAIN. Which, for any of you following at home, is the same injury I sustained four years ago during my first year at Smith. Which means another, major surgery. And extensive healing time.
I've kept profanity mostly off this blog, but seriously:
Fuck.
Trying hard to keep hoping,
~Dane
Okay. I get it. You really really REALLY don't want me to go to Seattle. So much so that you complicated my knee injury and actually ruptured my ACL AGAIN. Which, for any of you following at home, is the same injury I sustained four years ago during my first year at Smith. Which means another, major surgery. And extensive healing time.
I've kept profanity mostly off this blog, but seriously:
Fuck.
Trying hard to keep hoping,
~Dane
12/13/2008
North Carolina 3, or GITS
Final rank: 53 out of 72 None too shabby, methinks.
GITS stands for Get In The Story.
Dear Dane,
I don't believe I've ever been this proud of you. You got your first ever 29.9 - a nearly perfect score on the best performance of "Bilingual" you EVER gave. And the .5 time penalty, which reduced it to a 29.4 was so worth it.
Love,
~me
Ps More later, promise.
GITS stands for Get In The Story.
Dear Dane,
I don't believe I've ever been this proud of you. You got your first ever 29.9 - a nearly perfect score on the best performance of "Bilingual" you EVER gave. And the .5 time penalty, which reduced it to a 29.4 was so worth it.
Love,
~me
Ps More later, promise.
12/12/2008
North Carolina 2, or Lines That've Stuck With Me
Notes: most of these are not perfectly verbatim, as I've heard them once. Don't come running after me with pitchforks.
The final line of a 1 minute poem about a woman who sees some light of recognition in her sister's eyes and hears her struggle to make sounds through her coma.
My father says she's just grinding her teeth.
In a poem spoken by G-d.
You asked for direction. You got choice.
You asked for comfort. I gave you desire.
You asked "G-d! Love me!" And I gave you stone cold silence so you would have to love each other.
In a poem about in the voice of an old woman from New Orleans who tried to ride out the storm.
A pastor can only put you in the ground, not Heaven.
The final lines of the aforementioned poem about the man with Alzheimers. This one is very not-verbatim.
...so I gave her a nickname. She doesn't notice when I use it because I only say it when I manage to remember the words to grace at the table. Our father...who art in...heaven. heaven. heaven.
The final line of a 1 minute poem about a woman who sees some light of recognition in her sister's eyes and hears her struggle to make sounds through her coma.
My father says she's just grinding her teeth.
In a poem spoken by G-d.
You asked for direction. You got choice.
You asked for comfort. I gave you desire.
You asked "G-d! Love me!" And I gave you stone cold silence so you would have to love each other.
In a poem about in the voice of an old woman from New Orleans who tried to ride out the storm.
A pastor can only put you in the ground, not Heaven.
The final lines of the aforementioned poem about the man with Alzheimers. This one is very not-verbatim.
...so I gave her a nickname. She doesn't notice when I use it because I only say it when I manage to remember the words to grace at the table. Our father...who art in...heaven. heaven. heaven.
12/11/2008
North Carolina 1, or Promises
Dear Dane,
Here are some things I want you to remember and promise yourself for next time there's a great big poetry slam.
1) I know it was really tempting to go all-out and fight for the win when you found out you'd drawn the very last (read: strategically best) spot in your bout, but your gut was telling you otherwise, and you know it. Swastika and Importance of Dialogue are not the pieces you need to be performing right now. The fact that you do them while shouting, and slam audiences sometimes like that, is no reason to persist in using them. Poems are not workhorses. Quit it.
2) That said, now that you're out of the running for finals, I can't wait for you to do the pieces you're *really* invested in tomorrow. Go all-out with it. Screw the fact that you're competing against some of your closest poetfriends, and a few genuine celebrities. Let the remember you as the girl who did the poems she needed to do and did them well.
3)The whole buying-lots-of-food thing was a good idea.
4) I wish I could post Khary Jackson's piece here from the four minute round. It was a persona piece in the voice of an old Black man talking about how his Alzheimer's is causing him to forget his wife's name sometimes. Remember how you began to cry hard right in the middle. Remember how you weren't just crying for the piece. Remember how he held you when he came back to sit down and you were still crying, his arms like butterfly wings against you.
5) You have memorized more than you think you have.
6) You don't have to go to every event you possibly can. You'll have more fun if you remember to relax and hang out with some established friends, too.
7) There is no number 7.
8) You will get to Seattle. You will get to Seattle. You will get to Seattle.
Love,
~me
Here are some things I want you to remember and promise yourself for next time there's a great big poetry slam.
1) I know it was really tempting to go all-out and fight for the win when you found out you'd drawn the very last (read: strategically best) spot in your bout, but your gut was telling you otherwise, and you know it. Swastika and Importance of Dialogue are not the pieces you need to be performing right now. The fact that you do them while shouting, and slam audiences sometimes like that, is no reason to persist in using them. Poems are not workhorses. Quit it.
2) That said, now that you're out of the running for finals, I can't wait for you to do the pieces you're *really* invested in tomorrow. Go all-out with it. Screw the fact that you're competing against some of your closest poetfriends, and a few genuine celebrities. Let the remember you as the girl who did the poems she needed to do and did them well.
3)The whole buying-lots-of-food thing was a good idea.
4) I wish I could post Khary Jackson's piece here from the four minute round. It was a persona piece in the voice of an old Black man talking about how his Alzheimer's is causing him to forget his wife's name sometimes. Remember how you began to cry hard right in the middle. Remember how you weren't just crying for the piece. Remember how he held you when he came back to sit down and you were still crying, his arms like butterfly wings against you.
5) You have memorized more than you think you have.
6) You don't have to go to every event you possibly can. You'll have more fun if you remember to relax and hang out with some established friends, too.
7) There is no number 7.
8) You will get to Seattle. You will get to Seattle. You will get to Seattle.
Love,
~me
12/08/2008
New Jersey 20, or In Which Small Hurdles Are Presented For Leaping Opportunities
I got my diagnosis today: torn meniscus. Which basically mean that the cartilage cushion that keeps my leg and knee bones from bangin' against one another ripped and now there's a tiny piece of cartilage floating around my knee and getting in the way of stuff. Which means they have to go take it out.
It's a small, small minor surgery. 20 minutes on the table, tops.
But it's on the 16th, so that knocks out my last visit north. I wanted to come so badly. I'm still hoping C and J can get down here for Christmas or something to entertain me while I recover. *sigh*
And it just makes things shakier as far as leaving. I want to get out of here. So, so badly. In fact, it actually puts all my earlier worries into perspective by reminding me that the important part is Getting Out Of Jersey. Which now maybe prolonged even further.
Okay. Time to pick up, dust off, and concentrate on the Individual World Poetry slam this week. I mean, what's surgery compared to not having my 3 minute piece memorized? Clearly an urgent matter to be addressed.
It's a small, small minor surgery. 20 minutes on the table, tops.
But it's on the 16th, so that knocks out my last visit north. I wanted to come so badly. I'm still hoping C and J can get down here for Christmas or something to entertain me while I recover. *sigh*
And it just makes things shakier as far as leaving. I want to get out of here. So, so badly. In fact, it actually puts all my earlier worries into perspective by reminding me that the important part is Getting Out Of Jersey. Which now maybe prolonged even further.
Okay. Time to pick up, dust off, and concentrate on the Individual World Poetry slam this week. I mean, what's surgery compared to not having my 3 minute piece memorized? Clearly an urgent matter to be addressed.
12/06/2008
New Jersey 19, or In Which Dane Takes a Deep Breath
Edit: Upon realizing that I might need to schedule knee surgery in a couple of days, I've canceled my ticket. But I did it once, which means it won't really be a problem to do again.
I have 24 hours to change my mind.
But as of right now, I fly to Seattle on the morning of Saturday, December 27th.
Sorry, Ma. It's gonna be a bit of an early morning drive. Flight leaves at 8am.
I'm relieved. I'm scared. I'm sad. I'm not crying. I swear.
And the next day, I have an audition for a choir somewhere in the city. Because life begins like that.
I have 24 hours to change my mind.
But as of right now, I fly to Seattle on the morning of Saturday, December 27th.
Sorry, Ma. It's gonna be a bit of an early morning drive. Flight leaves at 8am.
I'm relieved. I'm scared. I'm sad. I'm not crying. I swear.
And the next day, I have an audition for a choir somewhere in the city. Because life begins like that.
12/04/2008
New Jersey 18, or Worries, Again
Dear You Know Who You Are,
See, part of the problem is that I remember you being cold. I remember you being gray. I remember the rain and the clouds that hid the mountains and I remember your streets. Steep streets. Long hills to walk for a body without a car. I remember exactly how few of your people I actually know, and how little I've even spoken to the ones I do. I remember your distance, wanting to call home when it was too late.
And I think of myself alone, or maybe with a roommate, trying to find a job and failing wildly. I think of not having enough money to see my family, blood and poet. I think of being miserable. You remind me of Prague, sometimes. At least in Prague, I didn't have to pay rent.
And then I think about Bent. I think about that small basement room filled with poets, and how sweet they were to me when I visited on tour. I think of maybe joining a choir (though I wish it were somehow possible to sing for free. One thing about being in school is someone else pays the director.) I think of the youth poets and the mentorships. I think, maybe, of Jews.
And I think of how sure I was just a few months ago. How I was so positive I couldn't stay here - "here" being anywhere on the East Coast. How much energy I had when I came back from touring. How scared I was when I decided to stay longer. I'm pushing my flight back again, just by a week, a few extra days. Let the airline prices drop a little. Help Mom pack just a little bit more. One or two more lunches and dinners with my grandparents. I'm stalling, Seattle.
But honestly, you're not helping. I know it's just as much my fault for not planting any seeds when I was there, so of course I won't be greeted with flowers than I arrive. But really, I could use some dandelions right about now. Nothing fancy - just a little splash of yellow, some soft blur about ankle-height, just so I remember why I'm doing this. What's important.
in trepidation,
~me
See, part of the problem is that I remember you being cold. I remember you being gray. I remember the rain and the clouds that hid the mountains and I remember your streets. Steep streets. Long hills to walk for a body without a car. I remember exactly how few of your people I actually know, and how little I've even spoken to the ones I do. I remember your distance, wanting to call home when it was too late.
And I think of myself alone, or maybe with a roommate, trying to find a job and failing wildly. I think of not having enough money to see my family, blood and poet. I think of being miserable. You remind me of Prague, sometimes. At least in Prague, I didn't have to pay rent.
And then I think about Bent. I think about that small basement room filled with poets, and how sweet they were to me when I visited on tour. I think of maybe joining a choir (though I wish it were somehow possible to sing for free. One thing about being in school is someone else pays the director.) I think of the youth poets and the mentorships. I think, maybe, of Jews.
And I think of how sure I was just a few months ago. How I was so positive I couldn't stay here - "here" being anywhere on the East Coast. How much energy I had when I came back from touring. How scared I was when I decided to stay longer. I'm pushing my flight back again, just by a week, a few extra days. Let the airline prices drop a little. Help Mom pack just a little bit more. One or two more lunches and dinners with my grandparents. I'm stalling, Seattle.
But honestly, you're not helping. I know it's just as much my fault for not planting any seeds when I was there, so of course I won't be greeted with flowers than I arrive. But really, I could use some dandelions right about now. Nothing fancy - just a little splash of yellow, some soft blur about ankle-height, just so I remember why I'm doing this. What's important.
in trepidation,
~me
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