7/27/2009
Seattle 51, or Slam Photo
Credit, as always, to Andi Burk. But check it out: this is not a picture of me doing a poem! It is a picture of me hosting the open mic. I love hosting, and this was the first time I got to do it in Seattle. I get to host the open mic (but not the) slam again this week, and I'm looking forward to it!
Seattle 50, or The Breakthrough Poem
Author's note: this is the one I've been trying to write since leaving Bent. Glad it finally came out.
work in progress, or parable of the baby social worker
They tell me I steal from children who have nothing,
use the shadows of their trauma
to make myself a superhero spotlight:
“Look at me. I spend all day
with children who’ve been put in group homes,
the ones nobody else can handle,
and I give them love like an ocean’s gift to the beaches!”
I have been face-smacked and scorched
for putting my work days on a stage.
Don’t think for a minute I don’t deserve it.
The voices of my teachers
were screams of pain caught in patient teeth.
I took the lessons home, let them echo for days.
“Listen, rich girl. Put you and me on a scale
to weigh our privilege and you’ll sink
like your pockets are filled with stones.
Jewish means nothing against my skin color, queer
is nothing they can read on your face, and
your body can carry you up mountains.
Shut up, and let me speak.”
I don’t take circumstance well.
Tell me it’s not my fault and I’ll find a reason it is.
My fault means my chance to fix it,
my wrongs are my chance to right it;
take that away, and you leave me helpless.
Anorexia, racism and self-defense class taught me
that a white girl’s greatest fear
is losing control.
Shame curled around my neck
like a noose, or beautiful jewelry,
something public.
I sat with open palms,
cracked heart, cheeks blistering,
like egg whites on cast iron,
trying to listen through the
ever blasting radio of guilt.
Listening is the hardest thing I do,
I look still, but inside,
I am a thrumming beehive,
reminding myself not to speak through:
“You’re just another white girl
working social services.
You may bear witness
to silenced people, but don’t
mistake yourself
for their scribe.
You want to make a difference?
Give them notebooks for Christmas,
and listen with an ocean’s patience.
Listen without an ear to how it will sound later.
Practice holding other people’s stories
like a conch learns to hold the ocean.”
I am learning to embody the listener.
She says I need to be gentle.
It’s damaging, this work,
it’s hard, like scar tissue,
and she teaches me
to work it below the surface
until things are loose
with tears and shouting again.
Take a minute
to see how hard you’re learning,
she says.
There are more ways to break down barriers
than with your forehead.
Jump out of the frying pan.
Go back to the ocean. Sit with it,
let it breathe rancid up your nose.
See what it offers you.
Learn its patience,
hold conch shells to your heart.
Come back when you’re ready to make waves.
work in progress, or parable of the baby social worker
They tell me I steal from children who have nothing,
use the shadows of their trauma
to make myself a superhero spotlight:
“Look at me. I spend all day
with children who’ve been put in group homes,
the ones nobody else can handle,
and I give them love like an ocean’s gift to the beaches!”
I have been face-smacked and scorched
for putting my work days on a stage.
Don’t think for a minute I don’t deserve it.
The voices of my teachers
were screams of pain caught in patient teeth.
I took the lessons home, let them echo for days.
“Listen, rich girl. Put you and me on a scale
to weigh our privilege and you’ll sink
like your pockets are filled with stones.
Jewish means nothing against my skin color, queer
is nothing they can read on your face, and
your body can carry you up mountains.
Shut up, and let me speak.”
I don’t take circumstance well.
Tell me it’s not my fault and I’ll find a reason it is.
My fault means my chance to fix it,
my wrongs are my chance to right it;
take that away, and you leave me helpless.
Anorexia, racism and self-defense class taught me
that a white girl’s greatest fear
is losing control.
Shame curled around my neck
like a noose, or beautiful jewelry,
something public.
I sat with open palms,
cracked heart, cheeks blistering,
like egg whites on cast iron,
trying to listen through the
ever blasting radio of guilt.
Listening is the hardest thing I do,
I look still, but inside,
I am a thrumming beehive,
reminding myself not to speak through:
“You’re just another white girl
working social services.
You may bear witness
to silenced people, but don’t
mistake yourself
for their scribe.
You want to make a difference?
Give them notebooks for Christmas,
and listen with an ocean’s patience.
Listen without an ear to how it will sound later.
Practice holding other people’s stories
like a conch learns to hold the ocean.”
I am learning to embody the listener.
She says I need to be gentle.
It’s damaging, this work,
it’s hard, like scar tissue,
and she teaches me
to work it below the surface
until things are loose
with tears and shouting again.
Take a minute
to see how hard you’re learning,
she says.
There are more ways to break down barriers
than with your forehead.
Jump out of the frying pan.
Go back to the ocean. Sit with it,
let it breathe rancid up your nose.
See what it offers you.
Learn its patience,
hold conch shells to your heart.
Come back when you’re ready to make waves.
7/26/2009
Seattle 49, or Stories of Hitchikers and Trainriders
Three quarters of the kibbutz is off camping this weekend at the foot of Mt. Ranier. I am home because I'm working this weekend, and two of my three housemates are home, so it doesn't feel too empty here in Gimmel. Tonight, we had a storytelling night, bolstered by homemade gazpacho, takeout pizza and lemonade splashed with gin. We - the four of us - took turns telling stories, generally unscripted, all somewhat enlightening. Stories about being on drugs, stories about finding humanity on a hitchhiking trip, bungee jumping in South Africa...even my story about Charlotte on the train. Later, we migrate to the (cooler) basement of house Aleph, switch from gin and lemonade to rum and coke, talk about kibbutz business and our love lives. Me and three men, laughing and yakking until midnight.
Also, some gratuitous photos, of the house I used to live in (house Bet.) No shots of Gimmel up yet.
Also, some gratuitous photos, of the house I used to live in (house Bet.) No shots of Gimmel up yet.
7/19/2009
Seattle 48, or This Week's Slam Photo
Credit, as always, to Andi Burk. However, you should take note of the dress I'm wearing - I got it from the Episcopalian thrift store down the street, and it was an awful shade of pastel pink, so I dyed it and now it's adorable, if I do say so myself.
7/18/2009
Seattle 47, or Delicious Things For Which I Wish Had Pictures
Things I have Cooked Recently:
Smoked Paprika Dijon Caramelized Onion Cheddar Macaroni and Cheese
All-Italian Sundried Tomato and Basil Pesto Parmesan and Mozzarella Macaroni and Cheese
Broccoli-Tofu Stir Fry with homemade peanut sauce
Things I have Been Delighted By Today:
Apricots, at the farmer's market. They came in this week, in a big way. So many varieties! I bought a bag of them, palm-sized fruit sporting a hearty blush. I never realized apricots could blush.
Apricot sorbet, by the guys at Empire Ice Cream. I've actually mentioned these guys before. This week, I also tasted Bay Laurel and Basil ice cream - delicious, though the apricot sorbet was so lusciously good, I bought a large cup of it and ate it in the shade while listening to a jazz trio serenade the market.
A bundle of rainbow chard, from Seattle Youth Garden Works, an organization that makes me want to drop everything and go volunteer for them. Will it actually happen? Probably not. I don't find gardening nearly as rewarding or fun as my mother, or my grandfather, or even most of my housemates. But, what a cool organization.
Smoked Paprika Dijon Caramelized Onion Cheddar Macaroni and Cheese
All-Italian Sundried Tomato and Basil Pesto Parmesan and Mozzarella Macaroni and Cheese
Broccoli-Tofu Stir Fry with homemade peanut sauce
Things I have Been Delighted By Today:
Apricots, at the farmer's market. They came in this week, in a big way. So many varieties! I bought a bag of them, palm-sized fruit sporting a hearty blush. I never realized apricots could blush.
Apricot sorbet, by the guys at Empire Ice Cream. I've actually mentioned these guys before. This week, I also tasted Bay Laurel and Basil ice cream - delicious, though the apricot sorbet was so lusciously good, I bought a large cup of it and ate it in the shade while listening to a jazz trio serenade the market.
A bundle of rainbow chard, from Seattle Youth Garden Works, an organization that makes me want to drop everything and go volunteer for them. Will it actually happen? Probably not. I don't find gardening nearly as rewarding or fun as my mother, or my grandfather, or even most of my housemates. But, what a cool organization.
7/17/2009
Seattle 46, or Comfort
In the aftermath of my exit from writing class, I sat down with the intention of cuddling myself for awhile. I re-read my favorite books, spent long hours curled up in bed enjoying the heaviness of my blankets, invited my friends for dinner and cooked with lots of effort, concentration, and joy.
This is how I take care of myself, when I remember. I listen to my body, however petulant it's being, try to get to the root of what I really need and want.
This is the first time I've ever consciously written a poem to comfort myself. It was not exhausting; it was like telling a bedtime story. The concept isn't mine - it belongs to Dara Horn, author of one of my favorite books: The World to Come. This poem takes a setting she describes in that book and just messes around inside it: a literary playground.
The world I'm coming to
(set in the world of Dara Horn's novel, The World to Come)
Daemond Arrindell tasted like honeyed wine, sweetened with blackberries
Tara Hardy, a whisky that left my stomach ablaze for weeks
Karen Finneyfrock, a Merlot
Sonya Renee tasted like a cocktail made mostly of maraschino cherries
and sliced oranges, set aflame with brandy,
Morris Stegosaurus, a martini. No olives.
Mike McGee was chocolate milk with a hint of vodka,
Roger Bonair Agard could only be rum with an aftertaste of jasmine,
Pablo Neruda tasted faintly of rosewater and ash
Patricia Smith was peach nectar drizzled slowly down my throat
Dain Michael Down, a milkshake spiked with almond syrup,
Jack McCarthy, a ceramic diner cup of coffee
that kept me awake long enough to get to Steven Wilbur,
who went down like orange juice with enough seltzer to sparkle.
I don't believe in heaven, or hell. Instead,
I believe in a world that exists in our everyday blind spots,
but is as real as the people I've turned my back on and called invisible.
The closest Jewish name for it is Olam Haba; the world to come.
In the world to come, the people who have lived
mentor and mingle with the people who have not yet been born.
Each has-been introduces a not-yet
to the surroundings of the world to come,
and prepares them for the inevitable:
(In the world to come, every not-yet is sentenced to birth.)
On my first day, my has-been showed up late to pick me up from school.
His name was Aaron, and he was drunk.
He staggered and mumbled his way to the doorstep,
thrust out his hand towards me and jerked his head to the outside.
"C'mon," he rasped. "We have a big day ahead of us."
The angel who was my teacher reminded him – “Aaron,
don’t forget about the drinking age…we don’t let them
into the bar until twenty one days before they’re born for a reason…”
Aaron ignored my teacher and gripped me by the wings,
the way you might hold a child’s ear between a thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck the drinking age,” he told me. “In our family, we start young,
and we don’t let up until the day it kills us.”
By now you may have guessed that the bars and pubs
of the world to come are actually filled with books.
Every writer who has or has not yet lived has a vintage,
left to ripen and mature and develop as they walk and work among the living.
Aaron sat me down near the back,
in a small shag-rug corner and returned
with an assortment of bottles.
“Relax, kiddo, this isn’t the hard stuff.
Go on, take a sip.”
I picked up Shel Silverstein by the neck because he had the most interesting label,
and took a cautious sip. It tasted like carbonated licorice and raspberry,
tickling me from the inside and making me laugh,
I picked up a glass of clear brown liquid and found it to be Dr. Seuss.
It tasted like brown sugar and apple juice.
The bartender raised an eyebrow at Aaron and me,
but then saw what I was drinking.
Aaron glared at her, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s all from the kid’s section!”
“Yah, I see that,” said the bartender. “But what I can I get you?”
“Give me some Dostoyevsky and maybe some Tony Brown to chase it with,” said Aaron offhandedly as the bartender rolled her eyes.
“Curse the day I ever introduced you to the Russians,” she said, wiping down a glass
and filling it with a dark, viscous drink. She set it down alongside
a larger glass of what looked like pomegranate juice. Aaron winked at me.
“Stick with your drinks, kiddo, this stuff is more bitter than it looks.
There will be plenty of this for you later. You’re looking at your future
family here. It’s why Maureen let me sneak you in. She’s been waiting for you to show up.”
I didn’t understand what he meant until he got up and lumbered his way
around the back. He came back with a bottle so small, his hand hid it completely.
“I know it’s against the rules, kid, but I wanted you to see this.
You’ll forget everything while you’re being born anyway – it’s how the thing works –
but well, some people need a little boost. Don’t taste it. It’s far from ready.
I just wanted you to know that it’ll be here when you get back.”
I turned the bottle over in my hands, looking for a label, and found only
the tiniest etching in the glass. I held it up to catch the light, saw only
my name and the year of the vintage.
Maureen came out of the back and plucked it from my hands.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she snarled, switching my bottle for a different one.
A.A Milne, the label read. A 1926 Winnie-the-Pooh. I uncorked it and tipped it back.
It tasted like milk and honey.
This is how I take care of myself, when I remember. I listen to my body, however petulant it's being, try to get to the root of what I really need and want.
This is the first time I've ever consciously written a poem to comfort myself. It was not exhausting; it was like telling a bedtime story. The concept isn't mine - it belongs to Dara Horn, author of one of my favorite books: The World to Come. This poem takes a setting she describes in that book and just messes around inside it: a literary playground.
The world I'm coming to
(set in the world of Dara Horn's novel, The World to Come)
Daemond Arrindell tasted like honeyed wine, sweetened with blackberries
Tara Hardy, a whisky that left my stomach ablaze for weeks
Karen Finneyfrock, a Merlot
Sonya Renee tasted like a cocktail made mostly of maraschino cherries
and sliced oranges, set aflame with brandy,
Morris Stegosaurus, a martini. No olives.
Mike McGee was chocolate milk with a hint of vodka,
Roger Bonair Agard could only be rum with an aftertaste of jasmine,
Pablo Neruda tasted faintly of rosewater and ash
Patricia Smith was peach nectar drizzled slowly down my throat
Dain Michael Down, a milkshake spiked with almond syrup,
Jack McCarthy, a ceramic diner cup of coffee
that kept me awake long enough to get to Steven Wilbur,
who went down like orange juice with enough seltzer to sparkle.
I don't believe in heaven, or hell. Instead,
I believe in a world that exists in our everyday blind spots,
but is as real as the people I've turned my back on and called invisible.
The closest Jewish name for it is Olam Haba; the world to come.
In the world to come, the people who have lived
mentor and mingle with the people who have not yet been born.
Each has-been introduces a not-yet
to the surroundings of the world to come,
and prepares them for the inevitable:
(In the world to come, every not-yet is sentenced to birth.)
On my first day, my has-been showed up late to pick me up from school.
His name was Aaron, and he was drunk.
He staggered and mumbled his way to the doorstep,
thrust out his hand towards me and jerked his head to the outside.
"C'mon," he rasped. "We have a big day ahead of us."
The angel who was my teacher reminded him – “Aaron,
don’t forget about the drinking age…we don’t let them
into the bar until twenty one days before they’re born for a reason…”
Aaron ignored my teacher and gripped me by the wings,
the way you might hold a child’s ear between a thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck the drinking age,” he told me. “In our family, we start young,
and we don’t let up until the day it kills us.”
By now you may have guessed that the bars and pubs
of the world to come are actually filled with books.
Every writer who has or has not yet lived has a vintage,
left to ripen and mature and develop as they walk and work among the living.
Aaron sat me down near the back,
in a small shag-rug corner and returned
with an assortment of bottles.
“Relax, kiddo, this isn’t the hard stuff.
Go on, take a sip.”
I picked up Shel Silverstein by the neck because he had the most interesting label,
and took a cautious sip. It tasted like carbonated licorice and raspberry,
tickling me from the inside and making me laugh,
I picked up a glass of clear brown liquid and found it to be Dr. Seuss.
It tasted like brown sugar and apple juice.
The bartender raised an eyebrow at Aaron and me,
but then saw what I was drinking.
Aaron glared at her, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s all from the kid’s section!”
“Yah, I see that,” said the bartender. “But what I can I get you?”
“Give me some Dostoyevsky and maybe some Tony Brown to chase it with,” said Aaron offhandedly as the bartender rolled her eyes.
“Curse the day I ever introduced you to the Russians,” she said, wiping down a glass
and filling it with a dark, viscous drink. She set it down alongside
a larger glass of what looked like pomegranate juice. Aaron winked at me.
“Stick with your drinks, kiddo, this stuff is more bitter than it looks.
There will be plenty of this for you later. You’re looking at your future
family here. It’s why Maureen let me sneak you in. She’s been waiting for you to show up.”
I didn’t understand what he meant until he got up and lumbered his way
around the back. He came back with a bottle so small, his hand hid it completely.
“I know it’s against the rules, kid, but I wanted you to see this.
You’ll forget everything while you’re being born anyway – it’s how the thing works –
but well, some people need a little boost. Don’t taste it. It’s far from ready.
I just wanted you to know that it’ll be here when you get back.”
I turned the bottle over in my hands, looking for a label, and found only
the tiniest etching in the glass. I held it up to catch the light, saw only
my name and the year of the vintage.
Maureen came out of the back and plucked it from my hands.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she snarled, switching my bottle for a different one.
A.A Milne, the label read. A 1926 Winnie-the-Pooh. I uncorked it and tipped it back.
It tasted like milk and honey.
7/15/2009
Seattle 45, or Frivolous Post of Pretty Things
From the delightfully creative Dr. Gus at Etsy (an online retailer of homemade stuff), a pendant made mostly of watch parts.
From online designer website eShakti, a summer dress, and a skirt (no, not a lampshade). I've taken to wearing skirts and dresses on my days off because I am specifically not allowed to wear them at work. Jeans now feel like work clothes.
From online designer website eShakti, a summer dress, and a skirt (no, not a lampshade). I've taken to wearing skirts and dresses on my days off because I am specifically not allowed to wear them at work. Jeans now feel like work clothes.
7/14/2009
Seattle 44, or Vulnerability, Part II; A Story Out of Order
I have had this feeling before; the feeling of working very, very hard and seeing very little come of it. Such is the case with writing class. I am writing a lot, improving my craft, but continue to meet resistance in class. I don't get along with the other students easily; I usually find little difficulty in pre-class banter and casual chatting; here, I seem to be a brand of socially awkward that doesn't fit in well. Then, there is the matter of my poems, which are sometimes unintentionally very offensive, and the class either shuts down and says nothing, or very carefully calls me out on its offensive properties. I call these "misfires." I've been misfiring for weeks.
But I have also had this feeling before, and it usually means I'm in the middle of something big, something that will eventually lead to real, measurable progress. I still have energy for this. Every homework assignment my teacher gives me is the right one. I can do it. I'm learning so much, every week, working so hard - it has to work out eventually, right?
*****
Levi and I sit atop a giant playground slide outside the hospital, while he listens to me narrate my thoughts, making plans, crying just a little. Eventually we begin to read poems to one another, slide down the slide, go grocery shopping at midnight because all I want to do in the world is make soup, and both of our kitchens are a little too far away at the moment. Grocery shopping is the next best thing. In this moment, I'm pretty sure Levi is the best thing.
*****
The thing I fear most in this world are the words, "We need to talk," in any variation.
*****
I take bad news best in large doses, particularly when it's unexpected.
*****
I trust my teacher. I trust her so much that I don't even panic anymore when she asks me to stay after class and talk. It's just that she knows I'm having a rough time - her whole class is having a rough time - and she's been checking in with me regularly, giving me homework. I always do the homework she gives me. I'm the best student I've ever been, with her.
*****
The last student trickles out, and teacher closes the door. I'm almost glad she's asked me to stay a minute because I can't wait to tell her how well the vulnerability exercise went. She turns around and mercifully comes right out with it.
"Dane, I'm asking you to leave Bent."
*****
If I was the teacher, I'd do the same thing. She says students have been leaving class, quitting, because of the discomfort and awkwardness I bring to the group. The school can't afford to lose that many students. She knows how hard I've been working. She says she's so, so sorry.
*****
I'm bawling.
*****
I am not angry. I'm not even hurt. I'm sad.
*****
Bent is why I came to Seattle. Thank G-d I've found other reasons to stay.
*****
Who will be my teacher now? She's one of the best I've ever had.
*****
She tells me to take a month off, then call her. She's willing to help me find other writing schools, other classes, maybe, maybe a new Bent class she's starting to work on. Her emphasis on taking a break makes me think she's exhausted too, needs a break from me.
*****
She sounds worried that I might think she doesn't like me. On the contrary, I've never been more certain that she does. The amount of energy she's invested in me is worth far more than what I've been paying for classes.
*****
I think my mother should probably still be awake, so I call. But as the phone is ringing, I grow embarrassed. This feels so much like failure. I've never been fired, never flunked a course. I don't want to explain it to her, don't want sympathy. I'm relieved when she sounds like I've woken her up. Shhh, Mom, everything's fine, just wanted to talk, thought you'd be up. Go back to sleep.
Hang up and cry some more at the bus stop.
Call Levi. He's eight blocks away. Maybe I'd like to swing by and say hello?
But I have also had this feeling before, and it usually means I'm in the middle of something big, something that will eventually lead to real, measurable progress. I still have energy for this. Every homework assignment my teacher gives me is the right one. I can do it. I'm learning so much, every week, working so hard - it has to work out eventually, right?
*****
Levi and I sit atop a giant playground slide outside the hospital, while he listens to me narrate my thoughts, making plans, crying just a little. Eventually we begin to read poems to one another, slide down the slide, go grocery shopping at midnight because all I want to do in the world is make soup, and both of our kitchens are a little too far away at the moment. Grocery shopping is the next best thing. In this moment, I'm pretty sure Levi is the best thing.
*****
The thing I fear most in this world are the words, "We need to talk," in any variation.
*****
I take bad news best in large doses, particularly when it's unexpected.
*****
I trust my teacher. I trust her so much that I don't even panic anymore when she asks me to stay after class and talk. It's just that she knows I'm having a rough time - her whole class is having a rough time - and she's been checking in with me regularly, giving me homework. I always do the homework she gives me. I'm the best student I've ever been, with her.
*****
The last student trickles out, and teacher closes the door. I'm almost glad she's asked me to stay a minute because I can't wait to tell her how well the vulnerability exercise went. She turns around and mercifully comes right out with it.
"Dane, I'm asking you to leave Bent."
*****
If I was the teacher, I'd do the same thing. She says students have been leaving class, quitting, because of the discomfort and awkwardness I bring to the group. The school can't afford to lose that many students. She knows how hard I've been working. She says she's so, so sorry.
*****
I'm bawling.
*****
I am not angry. I'm not even hurt. I'm sad.
*****
Bent is why I came to Seattle. Thank G-d I've found other reasons to stay.
*****
Who will be my teacher now? She's one of the best I've ever had.
*****
She tells me to take a month off, then call her. She's willing to help me find other writing schools, other classes, maybe, maybe a new Bent class she's starting to work on. Her emphasis on taking a break makes me think she's exhausted too, needs a break from me.
*****
She sounds worried that I might think she doesn't like me. On the contrary, I've never been more certain that she does. The amount of energy she's invested in me is worth far more than what I've been paying for classes.
*****
I think my mother should probably still be awake, so I call. But as the phone is ringing, I grow embarrassed. This feels so much like failure. I've never been fired, never flunked a course. I don't want to explain it to her, don't want sympathy. I'm relieved when she sounds like I've woken her up. Shhh, Mom, everything's fine, just wanted to talk, thought you'd be up. Go back to sleep.
Hang up and cry some more at the bus stop.
Call Levi. He's eight blocks away. Maybe I'd like to swing by and say hello?
7/13/2009
Seattle 43, or A Conversation
Him: What's the word for the guy who hands out the siddurim at the door?
Me: I don't think there is one in Yiddish or Hebrew.
Him: Greeter, maybe?
Me: Yeah. Or, maybe gabbai.
Him: No, Gabbai is the one up on the bimah and correcting everyone's Torah mistakes.
Me: I always thought so too, but apparently wikipedia disagrees.
Him: Oy, wiki.
Me: Maybe in recent times we've shoehorned the role of gabbai into that little spot on the bimah because congregations don't want to admit that they might employ their own members to do menial/custodial things. Instead, the people skills parts are delegated to "volunteers," and the actual maintenence to non-Jews, and often undocumented immigrants who speak little English and demand neither raises nor dignity. In that way, the congregation can pat itself on the back for employing someone worse off than they are, and simultaneously remind themselves that they're no longer greenhorns who do other people's scut work, or even their own.
Him: Whoa, you should put that on your blog.
Me: Are you kidding? It's bitter conjecture without any proof. It's one in the morning! I'm not making any sense!
Him: You could just put down what you've noticed, and let people draw their own conclusions.
Me: But I haven't even noticed that in my own experience - just sometimes, at other synagogues, maybe, but when I grew up, the gabbai was a much-beloved Italian Catholic named Bob who taught the rabbi Italian in exchange for some Yiddish lessons.
Him: So?
Me: It would make my readers quite annoyed, I think.
Him: So?
Me (thinking): You are such a rotten influence sometimes.
Him (in my imagination): I dare you.
Me: (still thinking): Argh
Him (still in my imagination): Hehehe, you can't argue with "so?"!
Me: Maybe. I'll think about it.
Him: You do that. Goodnight!
Me: I don't think there is one in Yiddish or Hebrew.
Him: Greeter, maybe?
Me: Yeah. Or, maybe gabbai.
Him: No, Gabbai is the one up on the bimah and correcting everyone's Torah mistakes.
Me: I always thought so too, but apparently wikipedia disagrees.
Him: Oy, wiki.
Me: Maybe in recent times we've shoehorned the role of gabbai into that little spot on the bimah because congregations don't want to admit that they might employ their own members to do menial/custodial things. Instead, the people skills parts are delegated to "volunteers," and the actual maintenence to non-Jews, and often undocumented immigrants who speak little English and demand neither raises nor dignity. In that way, the congregation can pat itself on the back for employing someone worse off than they are, and simultaneously remind themselves that they're no longer greenhorns who do other people's scut work, or even their own.
Him: Whoa, you should put that on your blog.
Me: Are you kidding? It's bitter conjecture without any proof. It's one in the morning! I'm not making any sense!
Him: You could just put down what you've noticed, and let people draw their own conclusions.
Me: But I haven't even noticed that in my own experience - just sometimes, at other synagogues, maybe, but when I grew up, the gabbai was a much-beloved Italian Catholic named Bob who taught the rabbi Italian in exchange for some Yiddish lessons.
Him: So?
Me: It would make my readers quite annoyed, I think.
Him: So?
Me (thinking): You are such a rotten influence sometimes.
Him (in my imagination): I dare you.
Me: (still thinking): Argh
Him (still in my imagination): Hehehe, you can't argue with "so?"!
Me: Maybe. I'll think about it.
Him: You do that. Goodnight!
7/11/2009
7/09/2009
Seattle 41, or Homework
Three weeks now, I've been bringing poems about the kids I work with to writing class. None of them succeed - they trigger bad memories for people, make them angry, bring up all the ugliness of their childhoods. This week, I brought a poem that tried to hold myself accountable for whose stories I put onstage. I likened my kids' stories to the story of a tiger, taken from the wilderness and put in a zoo, to be kept safe, only to be taken from the zoo and thrust into a circus for someone else's profit. I don't want to talk about my kids onstage to win slams. I do it because I care about them so much I can hardly think or write about anything else.
The class is unimpressed with my efforts, as are several outsiders - the idea of comparing children to zoo animals hits a little too close to ugly, too close to shame. Others think it's good, truthful. One of my coworkers reminds me that "[People who grew up in the system] don't know what it's like for us [who work it] any more than we know what it's like for them. This piece tells what it's like for us, and that's what you know." In my poem, it looks like this:
"I can't know what captivity feels like
any more than a tiger can know
the weight of cage keys on my belt."
Teacher gives me homework. She says to practice being vulnerable. She promises that practicing will lead to a genuine ability to be vulnerable onstage, to connect honestly with the audience. She points out that this will also probably lead to better scores. My assignment is to find a person I trust, sit down with them, and look straight into their eyes for five minutes without speaking, moving, or breaking eye contact.
I explain my homework to my coworker, and invite her for lunch and a staring contest. We eat well, buttered rice with cilantro sauce, fried eggs, fresh mango for dessert. We head into my house's meditation room, a giant room with no furniture and seven large skylights: best used for dancing, or things like this. We settle on a few pillows, and I set my alarm clock to go off in five minutes.
We go through a period of smiling nervously at each other, but it passes quickly. I spend some time trying to think about what I should be thinking about, but I don't know what I'm supposed to think about, so I just try to let thoughts drift about and land wherever they want to. I think about car crashes for awhile. I'm sure this isn't helping me be a better poet. My coworker fidgets less than I do. When I think I'm about to go crazy, I start counting seconds. I count five minutes, and the alarm hasn't gone off. I must've counted too fast. I'm such a wimp for not even lasting the five minutes, but I break the silence and whisper, "I think I didn't turn my alarm on."
She giggles. "Wanna go check it?"
I go. In fact, my alarm is off, and we've been sitting for 28 minutes. Neither of us believe it.
Tonight, at the poetry slam, Andi suggests I give the tiger poem a break for a few days. She's probably right; I've written four drafts of it in the last three days, and it probably deserves some percolating time. I decide to go with a new draft of the G-d piece. I'm finally almost happy with it. In fact, I think I may be done with it, despite the fact that half my readers will probably hate the new ending.
Onstage, the audience doesn't feel as far away as usual. I stand straight, feel my bones settle. I feel solid, grounded. My voice sounds a tiny bit different, more conversational, less performative.
I didn't even come close to winning, but I walked out feeling like I finally got somewhere. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.
The class is unimpressed with my efforts, as are several outsiders - the idea of comparing children to zoo animals hits a little too close to ugly, too close to shame. Others think it's good, truthful. One of my coworkers reminds me that "[People who grew up in the system] don't know what it's like for us [who work it] any more than we know what it's like for them. This piece tells what it's like for us, and that's what you know." In my poem, it looks like this:
"I can't know what captivity feels like
any more than a tiger can know
the weight of cage keys on my belt."
Teacher gives me homework. She says to practice being vulnerable. She promises that practicing will lead to a genuine ability to be vulnerable onstage, to connect honestly with the audience. She points out that this will also probably lead to better scores. My assignment is to find a person I trust, sit down with them, and look straight into their eyes for five minutes without speaking, moving, or breaking eye contact.
I explain my homework to my coworker, and invite her for lunch and a staring contest. We eat well, buttered rice with cilantro sauce, fried eggs, fresh mango for dessert. We head into my house's meditation room, a giant room with no furniture and seven large skylights: best used for dancing, or things like this. We settle on a few pillows, and I set my alarm clock to go off in five minutes.
We go through a period of smiling nervously at each other, but it passes quickly. I spend some time trying to think about what I should be thinking about, but I don't know what I'm supposed to think about, so I just try to let thoughts drift about and land wherever they want to. I think about car crashes for awhile. I'm sure this isn't helping me be a better poet. My coworker fidgets less than I do. When I think I'm about to go crazy, I start counting seconds. I count five minutes, and the alarm hasn't gone off. I must've counted too fast. I'm such a wimp for not even lasting the five minutes, but I break the silence and whisper, "I think I didn't turn my alarm on."
She giggles. "Wanna go check it?"
I go. In fact, my alarm is off, and we've been sitting for 28 minutes. Neither of us believe it.
Tonight, at the poetry slam, Andi suggests I give the tiger poem a break for a few days. She's probably right; I've written four drafts of it in the last three days, and it probably deserves some percolating time. I decide to go with a new draft of the G-d piece. I'm finally almost happy with it. In fact, I think I may be done with it, despite the fact that half my readers will probably hate the new ending.
Onstage, the audience doesn't feel as far away as usual. I stand straight, feel my bones settle. I feel solid, grounded. My voice sounds a tiny bit different, more conversational, less performative.
I didn't even come close to winning, but I walked out feeling like I finally got somewhere. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.
7/06/2009
Seattle 40, or Birthday Party
At least six people must've asked me if I was having fun. This cracked me up to no end. How could I not be having fun? Over a dozen people came to celebrate my birthday in my new (clean, shiny, freshly swept) house, brought all my favorite foods (pesto, sundried tomato hummus, fresh-baked corn rye bread, big bowls of cherries, a brownie banana cake...and much more), played games that left us all laughing ($64 pyramid anyone?) and helped clean it all up before they went home.
Oh, and Tamar made everyone sing Happy Birthday. I heard harmonies. I nearly went deaf. How could I be here only three months and have enough friends to sing the roof off my house? How does any one person get to be so lucky?
Oh, and Tamar made everyone sing Happy Birthday. I heard harmonies. I nearly went deaf. How could I be here only three months and have enough friends to sing the roof off my house? How does any one person get to be so lucky?
7/05/2009
Seattle 39, or Last Week's Slam Photo
Credit, as always, to Andi Burk - who was happily shooting away at a much faster pace than normal because the lights finally got fixed. I decided to stop worrying about smudges on my glasses and just went for the blind-as-a-bat look...
7/03/2009
Seattle 38, or A One-Shot Review By An Audience Member from Tonight's Gig in Everett
Robinson Bolkum writes:
"Dane Kuttler was featured at "Zippy's." I am thoroughly taken with her stage presence, her voice an' demeanor, her grooming & appearance, delivery, composition, content & invitation to audience participation, her timing, her stance & gestures, her merchandise. She did not go too long or too briefly. She brought easy laughter, & a touch of teariness as well. DANE KUTTLER She's well worth remembering, seeing & hearing."
"Dane Kuttler was featured at "Zippy's." I am thoroughly taken with her stage presence, her voice an' demeanor, her grooming & appearance, delivery, composition, content & invitation to audience participation, her timing, her stance & gestures, her merchandise. She did not go too long or too briefly. She brought easy laughter, & a touch of teariness as well. DANE KUTTLER She's well worth remembering, seeing & hearing."
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