I had a cup of yogurt for brunch this morning, while I was editing poems and working on my new Kibbutz project: a bencher, with all the songs we want and all the (good) transliteration we need. Within ten minutes of eating the yogurt, it attacked my digestive system with a vengeance, and knocked me out for several hours. When the cramps subsided, I called up all my lactose-intolerant friends and described what happened.
"Yup," they said. "Sounds like you're a bit of a lactard."
Last week at the monthly Kibbutz open mic, I read a slew of pieces that I've written in the last six-eight weeks. This summer has been a very prolific one, and I'm grateful for all the poems that have sprung from it. But the feedback session at the open mic (it's a unique feature of the Kibbutz, that all the performers get feedback, if they want it), many people say,
"It makes sense that a lot of these pieces sound alike because you wrote them so close together..."
Or, as Joel put it, "My music teacher says you write infinite variations on a theme, until you're finished with that theme. It's not a bad place to be, you're just in the middle."
I haven't written a new draft of anything since that open mic, in part because I feel stuck. I should be rehearsing for Wednesday's finals competition (winner gets to represent Seattle at the Individual World Poetry Slam next month), but after getting sick, I'm having trouble salvaging the rest of the day.
And with that, I think I'll go see if I can find a nice piece of toast.
8/30/2009
8/26/2009
Seattle 60, or Graveyard
I've hit the balance: four cups of coffee, but none after 4am. I can't have the jitters at 7, when the shift is over, gotta go home, gotta sleep, gotta make the day seem at least a little normal. The big night job is laundry - about a dozen loads per night, except on weekends - then it's more like twenty. Having the structure helps - gotta get up, gotta walk, fold, arrange the kids' clothes into neat piles for them to claim in the morning.
Sometime after 2, my brain shuts down, and I can't comprehend much beyond a fourth grade reading level, which is convenient, because the hardest books on the shelves are about that difficult. Some adults harbor a secret love for picture books, but I'm a Young Adult Fiction girl, all the way. I work through a stack of eight or nine a night, sometimes more. I've re-read every Beverly Cleary book - she's just about the right speed. Andrew Clements is excellent, too. (Which reminds me, Dear Abby, Andrew Clements books on tape are perfect for your new commute - particularly "School Story." You'll like that one.) So are the Boxcar Children, the Babysitters Club, books by Karen Hesse, Jerry Spinelli and Madeline L'Engle. New-to-me authors include Mary Jane Auchs (Journey to Nowhere), Andrea Davis Pinkney (Silent Thunder). I forgot how much I love historical fiction. I'm revisiting the magic of my childhood, the first snippets of freedom I ever understood.
Bed-checks are every twenty minutes or so, but at random intervals. Some kids sleep curled up so small I have to walk into the room to make sure they're actually there. Some snore. Some wake every time, no matter how quietly I open the door. "Just checking," I whisper. "Goodnight, kiddo."
4-5am is the longest, darkest hour. The birds kick in around a quarter to five, and the sky begins to lighten around five. From five to seven, I can't even read. I finish the laundry, wipe down the counters, pace, sit, play with string. Sometimes, I have waking dreams. This morning, a kid woke up with a nightmare just as I was about to start hopping up and down on one foot to stay awake. I made her a cup of tea, thick with honey, sang her lullabies about trains - Hobo's Lullaby, Morningtown Ride, City of New Orleans. I walked her through some grounding exercises; we said together, "I am at Ryther. I am safe. These are my safe walls, my safe bed, my safe clothes and stuffed animals and safe blankets. There are staff to make sure I am safe. Nobody can hurt me right now. It's safe to go back to sleep." The word "safe" began to sound funny in my mouth, the way any word does after a lot of repetition. I sat outside her door, let her keep the lights on, the door cracked just enough for her to see my foot propped against the doorjamb. She was asleep by the time I left.
My vision blurs on the bike ride home, yawns cracking my jaw. It's getting cold - probably in the low 50s. My sweatshirt feels good on the ride. Commuters pass me in the bike lane, headed towards the university. I get home shortly after the espresso stand on the corner opens, brush my teeth, crash into bed, oh, soft, soft bed with your peach-colored sheets. Sleep till noon or one. Do it again, soon.
Sometime after 2, my brain shuts down, and I can't comprehend much beyond a fourth grade reading level, which is convenient, because the hardest books on the shelves are about that difficult. Some adults harbor a secret love for picture books, but I'm a Young Adult Fiction girl, all the way. I work through a stack of eight or nine a night, sometimes more. I've re-read every Beverly Cleary book - she's just about the right speed. Andrew Clements is excellent, too. (Which reminds me, Dear Abby, Andrew Clements books on tape are perfect for your new commute - particularly "School Story." You'll like that one.) So are the Boxcar Children, the Babysitters Club, books by Karen Hesse, Jerry Spinelli and Madeline L'Engle. New-to-me authors include Mary Jane Auchs (Journey to Nowhere), Andrea Davis Pinkney (Silent Thunder). I forgot how much I love historical fiction. I'm revisiting the magic of my childhood, the first snippets of freedom I ever understood.
Bed-checks are every twenty minutes or so, but at random intervals. Some kids sleep curled up so small I have to walk into the room to make sure they're actually there. Some snore. Some wake every time, no matter how quietly I open the door. "Just checking," I whisper. "Goodnight, kiddo."
4-5am is the longest, darkest hour. The birds kick in around a quarter to five, and the sky begins to lighten around five. From five to seven, I can't even read. I finish the laundry, wipe down the counters, pace, sit, play with string. Sometimes, I have waking dreams. This morning, a kid woke up with a nightmare just as I was about to start hopping up and down on one foot to stay awake. I made her a cup of tea, thick with honey, sang her lullabies about trains - Hobo's Lullaby, Morningtown Ride, City of New Orleans. I walked her through some grounding exercises; we said together, "I am at Ryther. I am safe. These are my safe walls, my safe bed, my safe clothes and stuffed animals and safe blankets. There are staff to make sure I am safe. Nobody can hurt me right now. It's safe to go back to sleep." The word "safe" began to sound funny in my mouth, the way any word does after a lot of repetition. I sat outside her door, let her keep the lights on, the door cracked just enough for her to see my foot propped against the doorjamb. She was asleep by the time I left.
My vision blurs on the bike ride home, yawns cracking my jaw. It's getting cold - probably in the low 50s. My sweatshirt feels good on the ride. Commuters pass me in the bike lane, headed towards the university. I get home shortly after the espresso stand on the corner opens, brush my teeth, crash into bed, oh, soft, soft bed with your peach-colored sheets. Sleep till noon or one. Do it again, soon.
8/19/2009
Seattle 59, or Something To Vote For
So, there's this crazy thing happening on the internet: someone wants to give money to Jews who have been nominated by their communities for doing Really Awesome Stuff. Naturally, the community I live in has put up a profile for Joel, one of the co-founders and general do-it guy for the kibbutz. Winning this thing would mean a whole bunch of money for the kibbutz - and some well-deserved recognition for Joel.
Picture the person in any of your communities who takes on all the most thankless work because they love what they do and the community they serve - that's Joel. Help us make this happen for him.
You can vote once every twelve hours! And we've got about 3,000 votes to catch up to the current leaders, so help us out! Bookmark the page and vote, vote, vote!
Here's his profile on the website
And here's more about the contest."
Picture the person in any of your communities who takes on all the most thankless work because they love what they do and the community they serve - that's Joel. Help us make this happen for him.
You can vote once every twelve hours! And we've got about 3,000 votes to catch up to the current leaders, so help us out! Bookmark the page and vote, vote, vote!
Here's his profile on the website
And here's more about the contest."
Seattle 58, or draft - for All the Injured Parties in My Family, of Late
My physical therapist
is a crunchy hippie cookoo nut
drill sergeant
who, in between rounds of reps and stretches,
asks me if I’m eating enough broccoli,
if I’ve had any nightmares lately,
or if my chakras have misaligned
since mercury went into retrograde.
I owe this woman at least as much
as the surgeon who grafted the ligament back together.
She has seen me red faced, sweaty and grunting
with the effort of putting my shoe back on
at the end of a session.
She knows that nothing motivates me
through ten minutes of stationary biking
like Christina Aguilera’s makes me that much stronger
even though I tell the other patients
it’s a bootleg from a legendary Slayer concert.
When she tells me to visualize,
my goals, I think about skiing, and sleeping through
the night, and taking a fearless shower.
She says "I’m giving you your knee back."
I say "Um, did you take it?”
She says "No, I’m giving it back
to the rest of your body. You treat this injured
piece like it won’t belong to you until it’s healed,
like you don’t want any claim on imperfection.
But this is yours. I’m giving it back.
Stop thinking of your flesh as future carcass.
Come to the pumpkin patch of bodies
and pick yours to take home.”
So while I’m at it, I’m taking back my tongue –
the one I want to disown for weakness,
for letting me weapon it. I’m taking back my feet,
though they’ve walked me away from things I should’ve leapt for.
I’m taking back these hands.
I disowned them the day I hit my sister.
I’m taking my flat feet back
and saying NO, you can’t have arches.
I’m taking back my crooked teeth,
my stomach cramps, my shoulders wound tight as rigging.
I’m taking out my ribs
for tea and conversation
and sending my heart to dance class.
is a crunchy hippie cookoo nut
drill sergeant
who, in between rounds of reps and stretches,
asks me if I’m eating enough broccoli,
if I’ve had any nightmares lately,
or if my chakras have misaligned
since mercury went into retrograde.
I owe this woman at least as much
as the surgeon who grafted the ligament back together.
She has seen me red faced, sweaty and grunting
with the effort of putting my shoe back on
at the end of a session.
She knows that nothing motivates me
through ten minutes of stationary biking
like Christina Aguilera’s makes me that much stronger
even though I tell the other patients
it’s a bootleg from a legendary Slayer concert.
When she tells me to visualize,
my goals, I think about skiing, and sleeping through
the night, and taking a fearless shower.
She says "I’m giving you your knee back."
I say "Um, did you take it?”
She says "No, I’m giving it back
to the rest of your body. You treat this injured
piece like it won’t belong to you until it’s healed,
like you don’t want any claim on imperfection.
But this is yours. I’m giving it back.
Stop thinking of your flesh as future carcass.
Come to the pumpkin patch of bodies
and pick yours to take home.”
So while I’m at it, I’m taking back my tongue –
the one I want to disown for weakness,
for letting me weapon it. I’m taking back my feet,
though they’ve walked me away from things I should’ve leapt for.
I’m taking back these hands.
I disowned them the day I hit my sister.
I’m taking my flat feet back
and saying NO, you can’t have arches.
I’m taking back my crooked teeth,
my stomach cramps, my shoulders wound tight as rigging.
I’m taking out my ribs
for tea and conversation
and sending my heart to dance class.
8/15/2009
Seattle 57, or Photo!
Photo credit goes to Katie Deits, of West Palm Beach, FL. The article in which this lovely candid appeared can be found here!
Family...see anyone you know?
Family...see anyone you know?
8/12/2009
Seattle 56, or The Jewish Open Mic
On the first day, I connected with all the Jews I could find and made sure they'd be at the Twelve Tribes Reading, which is among, if not my favorite of the Nationals events. In the slam world, we are so scattered - one or two per city (even in New York!*), and fewer still that actually perform poems about being Jewish. In the early days of the 12 Tribes mic, Paulie would have to track down people with Jewish-sounding names and convince them to perform. Their protest? "But I don't have any Jewish poems!"
*[edit: Okay, maybe New York has a few more.]
I hear it at least once every year, from someone I try to convince to join the reading. And it brings me back to that round table in a stuffy college classroom, where we debated for weeks: what makes Jewish literature? Is it subject, author, lens? Is it anything? If a book is antisemitic, do we include it in a course on Jewish literature? Why or why not?
In the end, Paulie made a rule: if you're Jewish, you can read whatever you want. If you're not Jewish, you have to read a poem with significant Jewish content. This year, a Gentile poet* read a poem about losing her best friend to an Orthodox marriage. She didn't blame the Jews, or Judaism; she blamed his interpretation. It was a stunningly well-delivered piece, that could have been awful, but was instead thought-provoking, questioning, respectful and punchy.
*[edit: initially, in my haste to publish this essay, I said "One of the Gentiles..." and someone respectfully pointed out that I was doing what I said not to do in my essay a few months ago.]
Many poems about Israel this year, including mine. I read the piece I posted a few entries back, to many accolades. Most of us aren't that nuanced in our poems yet; there's a lot of screaming about "stop the fighting." Maya puts up* her piece about contemporary antisemitism. Paulie does "Field of Flames", but his hair has grown back this year. There wasn't an election that made him want to shave it. His parents are in the audience. So are my grandparents.
*[edit: initially I said "Maya drops her piece" which I meant like dropping a record, but forgot that in slam, "to drop" means "to forget." Maya did not forget her piece, she actually rocked it.]
My grandmother asks me afterward, why do we all write about the Nazis and not acknowledge the other horrors, namely the Inquisition. It is the biggest scar I inherited from her, the knowledge of expulsion. She always makes a point of saying that our family was among the high courts of Spain, part of the elite class, and still we had to leave. Being wealthy does not save us. Being intelligent does not save us. Nothing saves our lives more than being portable and invisible, but nothing kills our spirits faster than fleeing under the shroud of invisibility.
I want to tell her that the aftereffects of the Holocaust are what we write about, not so much the event itself. There are no websites dedicated to the re-emergence of the Inquisition, but the list of neo-Nazi groups grows as we sleep, as we embrace this generation of assimilation, and she knows this.
I am reminded of Dr. Justin Cammy, the Jewish history professor who said,
"The greatest periods of annihilation in Jewish history always followed the greatest periods of assimilation."
His thesis - it's really more of a conclusion - sits on my shoulder, next to the cultural memories of exile and hiding.
As the open mic comes to a close, the poets linger for just a few minutes in the stairwell, in the hallway. I see a number of Gentile poets, and I assume they've come to support their Jewish teammates, but then realize that not very many of those teams have Jews. One comes my way, and I ask him what he thought.
"It was great," he says. "I don't ever hear Jewish voices, no matter where I travel. They're pretty absent from slam as a whole. That's why this mic is so important."
Like a museum, I think. Like memory. Something to be preserved so the future generations knew we were here. Are we that invisible?
Or just that assimilated?
*[edit: Okay, maybe New York has a few more.]
I hear it at least once every year, from someone I try to convince to join the reading. And it brings me back to that round table in a stuffy college classroom, where we debated for weeks: what makes Jewish literature? Is it subject, author, lens? Is it anything? If a book is antisemitic, do we include it in a course on Jewish literature? Why or why not?
In the end, Paulie made a rule: if you're Jewish, you can read whatever you want. If you're not Jewish, you have to read a poem with significant Jewish content. This year, a Gentile poet* read a poem about losing her best friend to an Orthodox marriage. She didn't blame the Jews, or Judaism; she blamed his interpretation. It was a stunningly well-delivered piece, that could have been awful, but was instead thought-provoking, questioning, respectful and punchy.
*[edit: initially, in my haste to publish this essay, I said "One of the Gentiles..." and someone respectfully pointed out that I was doing what I said not to do in my essay a few months ago.]
Many poems about Israel this year, including mine. I read the piece I posted a few entries back, to many accolades. Most of us aren't that nuanced in our poems yet; there's a lot of screaming about "stop the fighting." Maya puts up* her piece about contemporary antisemitism. Paulie does "Field of Flames", but his hair has grown back this year. There wasn't an election that made him want to shave it. His parents are in the audience. So are my grandparents.
*[edit: initially I said "Maya drops her piece" which I meant like dropping a record, but forgot that in slam, "to drop" means "to forget." Maya did not forget her piece, she actually rocked it.]
My grandmother asks me afterward, why do we all write about the Nazis and not acknowledge the other horrors, namely the Inquisition. It is the biggest scar I inherited from her, the knowledge of expulsion. She always makes a point of saying that our family was among the high courts of Spain, part of the elite class, and still we had to leave. Being wealthy does not save us. Being intelligent does not save us. Nothing saves our lives more than being portable and invisible, but nothing kills our spirits faster than fleeing under the shroud of invisibility.
I want to tell her that the aftereffects of the Holocaust are what we write about, not so much the event itself. There are no websites dedicated to the re-emergence of the Inquisition, but the list of neo-Nazi groups grows as we sleep, as we embrace this generation of assimilation, and she knows this.
I am reminded of Dr. Justin Cammy, the Jewish history professor who said,
"The greatest periods of annihilation in Jewish history always followed the greatest periods of assimilation."
His thesis - it's really more of a conclusion - sits on my shoulder, next to the cultural memories of exile and hiding.
As the open mic comes to a close, the poets linger for just a few minutes in the stairwell, in the hallway. I see a number of Gentile poets, and I assume they've come to support their Jewish teammates, but then realize that not very many of those teams have Jews. One comes my way, and I ask him what he thought.
"It was great," he says. "I don't ever hear Jewish voices, no matter where I travel. They're pretty absent from slam as a whole. That's why this mic is so important."
Like a museum, I think. Like memory. Something to be preserved so the future generations knew we were here. Are we that invisible?
Or just that assimilated?
8/10/2009
Seattle 55, or Arrival Post
I'm home. A kibbutznik picked me up from the airport at 1:30am, with strong hugs and questions about the trip, which was far above and beyond the call of comradeship, in my opinion. It felt so much like coming home.
I am home.
(And thank G-d home is 65 degrees with no humidity, because that South Florida business was really getting to me. Making my skin all soft and not-flaky and stuff. How irritating.)
I am home.
(And thank G-d home is 65 degrees with no humidity, because that South Florida business was really getting to me. Making my skin all soft and not-flaky and stuff. How irritating.)
8/07/2009
Florida 3, or poem I wrote here
The nightmare always ends in one of two ways:
running, or hiding. In both versions,
I carry a backpack, or a suitcase,
once, nothing more than a toothbrush and a mezuzah,
Jewish star necklace pounding counterpoint to heartbeat.
I wake to the echoes of boots and barking.
My lover’s body shifts; it has learned to read my nightmares
without waking. Her hips curl against mine;
a hand soothes its way across my belly.
I have taught her to remind me in a quiet voice:
“They’re not coming for you, darlin’. Not tonight.”
Once, not quite awake myself, I asked her, “Are you sure?”
I have surprised many a lover
when I tell them I already know what I would pack
if I had only an hour, watched their faces fall
when I make the joke:
Two Jews walk into a mapmakers shop,
and ask for a globe and a pen. One by one,
they draw X’s through the countries
with excuses for not taking Jews.
Finally, the globe is entirely black,
and they send the mapmaker to look
for a globe of some other world.
Israel, for all the faults I rail against her,
is supposed to be part of some other world,
a safe end to a dangerous journey, the only question:
how will I get there?
Last Saturday a black-clad gunman
walked into Tel Aviv’s queer youth center
and started shooting.
The center, like many of its kind,
was in a basement.
I wonder if my people have forgotten
the primal importance of an escape route.
Dear Liz,
they will say that your death was merciful,
no fenceposts or barbed wire, no dogs or packs
of boys on the cusp of monsterhood.
And Nir, my grandfather will say that at twenty six,
you were too old to still be a radical communist,
but, he will call you a hero for the way you took the bullets
meant for the others.
The youth you shielded will mourn you,
even those forced out of the closet from their hospital beds,
shrapnel digging into legs that have not yet learned
to army march.
The Israeli media calls the gunman a criminal and a murderer,
because to call him a terrorist would give
the wrong image: a Koran, a kefiyah,
and cries of Allah Akbar as the shots rang out.
But, a Jew?
I wonder: Will the nightmares change?
Can a lover so gently ease me back to safe
if the question suddenly becomes not
how will I get there,
but
where will I go?
running, or hiding. In both versions,
I carry a backpack, or a suitcase,
once, nothing more than a toothbrush and a mezuzah,
Jewish star necklace pounding counterpoint to heartbeat.
I wake to the echoes of boots and barking.
My lover’s body shifts; it has learned to read my nightmares
without waking. Her hips curl against mine;
a hand soothes its way across my belly.
I have taught her to remind me in a quiet voice:
“They’re not coming for you, darlin’. Not tonight.”
Once, not quite awake myself, I asked her, “Are you sure?”
I have surprised many a lover
when I tell them I already know what I would pack
if I had only an hour, watched their faces fall
when I make the joke:
Two Jews walk into a mapmakers shop,
and ask for a globe and a pen. One by one,
they draw X’s through the countries
with excuses for not taking Jews.
Finally, the globe is entirely black,
and they send the mapmaker to look
for a globe of some other world.
Israel, for all the faults I rail against her,
is supposed to be part of some other world,
a safe end to a dangerous journey, the only question:
how will I get there?
Last Saturday a black-clad gunman
walked into Tel Aviv’s queer youth center
and started shooting.
The center, like many of its kind,
was in a basement.
I wonder if my people have forgotten
the primal importance of an escape route.
Dear Liz,
they will say that your death was merciful,
no fenceposts or barbed wire, no dogs or packs
of boys on the cusp of monsterhood.
And Nir, my grandfather will say that at twenty six,
you were too old to still be a radical communist,
but, he will call you a hero for the way you took the bullets
meant for the others.
The youth you shielded will mourn you,
even those forced out of the closet from their hospital beds,
shrapnel digging into legs that have not yet learned
to army march.
The Israeli media calls the gunman a criminal and a murderer,
because to call him a terrorist would give
the wrong image: a Koran, a kefiyah,
and cries of Allah Akbar as the shots rang out.
But, a Jew?
I wonder: Will the nightmares change?
Can a lover so gently ease me back to safe
if the question suddenly becomes not
how will I get there,
but
where will I go?
8/05/2009
Florida 2, or Night One
I got to host a bout between Milwaukee (which I will never again misspell), Mesa (Arizona), Providence (RI), and Omaha. It was a great bout, and the venue was packed. Such a huge difference from last summer in Madison, when the venues were practically empty. The MC's had a little contest going, to see who could get through their bout the fastest, without incurring any protests (from poets who thought we may have broken the rules). I won, by about five minutes, mostly due to my great bout manager who secured judges for us before the slam started. I'm hoping that this means I'll get one of the coveted spots to host a semifinal bout.
Then I got to go see Team Seattle! They did great, earning the #2 spot in their bout (to be fair, the #1 went to Orlando, and they had LOTS of friends in the audience).
Afterward, everyone jumped in the hotel pool. The pool is horribly warm and filled with salt water (!!), but the hotel staff are being incredibly nice and allowing a rather raucous group of poets to take over their pool for the night. It's outdoors, and the moon is blazing. People are so grateful for the chance to forget how much they're sweating.
Then I got to go see Team Seattle! They did great, earning the #2 spot in their bout (to be fair, the #1 went to Orlando, and they had LOTS of friends in the audience).
Afterward, everyone jumped in the hotel pool. The pool is horribly warm and filled with salt water (!!), but the hotel staff are being incredibly nice and allowing a rather raucous group of poets to take over their pool for the night. It's outdoors, and the moon is blazing. People are so grateful for the chance to forget how much they're sweating.
8/03/2009
8/02/2009
Seattle 54, or Impending Departure
This is the I'm-heading-to-the-airport post. Headed to Florida for the National Poetry Slam (and to see my beloved Grandmama and her sweetie, Bob). I can't promise I'll update much here, (other than the obligatory Safe Arrival Post) but perhaps you might see sporadic doodlings, especially if I start writing poems I want to remember!
Seattle 53, or Current Events
Further notes (added 8/2/09):
"In Israel, "terror attack" means "we can blame the Palestinians" while "criminal" means "it was only a Jew." Lovely distinction, isn't it? To murder people you don't even know, whether because your church, your tribe, or your nation says to, is a crime of hate designed to spread terror. Period."
~Elliott BatTzedek, in response to the shooting
I almost never post news here, but this one came at me hard.
"Israel: this country I love so much,
that each of its betrayals
feels like the end of a rifle
jabbed against my heart."
~"Importance of Dialogue" (c) 2009
'Tel Aviv Gay Massacre'
"A gunman clad entirely in black opened fire with an automatic weapon on a group of gay teenagers who were attending a weekly support group."
"In Israel, "terror attack" means "we can blame the Palestinians" while "criminal" means "it was only a Jew." Lovely distinction, isn't it? To murder people you don't even know, whether because your church, your tribe, or your nation says to, is a crime of hate designed to spread terror. Period."
~Elliott BatTzedek, in response to the shooting
I almost never post news here, but this one came at me hard.
"Israel: this country I love so much,
that each of its betrayals
feels like the end of a rifle
jabbed against my heart."
~"Importance of Dialogue" (c) 2009
'Tel Aviv Gay Massacre'
"A gunman clad entirely in black opened fire with an automatic weapon on a group of gay teenagers who were attending a weekly support group."
8/01/2009
Seattle 53, or Slam Photo (pre haircut)
Photo credit, as always, to Andi Burk. I also got a haircut two days after this, so upcoming photos might show some interesting before/after effects! (It's not that short - it's still past my shoulders.)
Seattle 52, or Heat
Summer baby I may be, but heat takes the writing out of my hands. I haven't felt like updating in almost two weeks, but the heat spell has finally broken, and my fingers are remembering how to do this.
First off, it was not as bad as anybody told you, the heat. It was child's play, compared to a typical East Coast summer. The temperatures reached the low 100s, but I never felt like it was more than 90 because there's zero humidity here. Odd, given that the city is surrounded by water, but utterly true. There's no swampy feeling, no death pressure to stay as low to the ground as possible. It's just kinda hot. Nothing worth crying about.
Nevertheless, I'm grateful I live so close to a lake. I've been swimming a few times in the last week, and I'm so grateful for it. Nothing like that first plunge, dancing across mossrocks until you find yourself splashdown in the water, which is suddenly much warmer once your head is in. I floated on my back for maybe half an hour, trying to hear the lake's heartbeat. Heard only the distant whine of boat motors. Said thank you to the lake anyhow. I miss Labelle this year more than usual.
Last night, I dreamed that I found my grandmother in my garden. I woke up terrified that it meant something.
I haven't been to the farmer's market in two weeks. Shaul and I have vague plans to go today, but there's not much I can buy, since I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow.
Oh, yes. Have I mentioned that I'm going to Florida for a week? I'm headed to the National Poetry Slam.
Here's the commercial - that's Anis Mojgani, a Portland poet who swings up to Seattle quite often.
First off, it was not as bad as anybody told you, the heat. It was child's play, compared to a typical East Coast summer. The temperatures reached the low 100s, but I never felt like it was more than 90 because there's zero humidity here. Odd, given that the city is surrounded by water, but utterly true. There's no swampy feeling, no death pressure to stay as low to the ground as possible. It's just kinda hot. Nothing worth crying about.
Nevertheless, I'm grateful I live so close to a lake. I've been swimming a few times in the last week, and I'm so grateful for it. Nothing like that first plunge, dancing across mossrocks until you find yourself splashdown in the water, which is suddenly much warmer once your head is in. I floated on my back for maybe half an hour, trying to hear the lake's heartbeat. Heard only the distant whine of boat motors. Said thank you to the lake anyhow. I miss Labelle this year more than usual.
Last night, I dreamed that I found my grandmother in my garden. I woke up terrified that it meant something.
I haven't been to the farmer's market in two weeks. Shaul and I have vague plans to go today, but there's not much I can buy, since I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow.
Oh, yes. Have I mentioned that I'm going to Florida for a week? I'm headed to the National Poetry Slam.
Here's the commercial - that's Anis Mojgani, a Portland poet who swings up to Seattle quite often.
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