3/30/2010

Seattle 104, or Seder pt. 1

I had washed my hands of Passover this year. I was claiming my injurious right to lie back and let everyone do the work - cleaning, kashering, food, setup. I said I'd be at the seder itself, but no one had better expect anything of my groggy, post-surgical self.

Until, of course, it was ten minutes until things were supposed to begin and Masha walked in with a bowl of matzah ball dough and asked if I'd mind shaping and cooking them. Oh, and the charoset needs wine, and the lettuce needs to be washed and prepped.

I was thrilled.

I slipped into my place at the stove as people began arriving - friends, strangers, old folks, young people, families of Kibbutzniks. As each matzah ball plip-plopped into the spare pot, I found myself mentally counting them - echad, shtayim, shalosh.... It's a reflex. I learned how to count in Hebrew from making matzah balls with Mammy. Also, kitchen math. "If there are eleven of us for Seder, and each of us gets two balls, except Gili will probably want three, how many extra do we need to make?"

People came in wanting to help. I set someone up at the sink with the lettuce, called instructions over my shoulder for the last minute charoset touches. Remembered oranges for the seder plates. Consulted on sliced vs grated horseradish (went with grated, against my advice.) In just those few minutes, it felt like a seder, underdressed as I was.

We started around, oh, I don't know, 8:30 maybe. The seder went for hours; we didn't eat until after 10, but I'd remembered to eat ahead of time this year, so it wasn't so torturous. Again, we used about half a dozen different haggadot, and jumped if any of us found a particularly good text or reading. This year, we had an excellent discussion about the "no one is free until everyone is free, including the people in power and comfort" concept. We talked about being slaves to technology, to comfort, to consumption. I performed my "Shifra the Midwife" poem. I read any number of Smith Haggadah interpretations of things. We sang lots. We finished Hallel and Nirtzah. Joel hid three Afikomen, all in the same bookshelf. The ransom? He had to sing an embarrassing country song he wrote in college called "Whiskey Bottle Mansion."

Sergey did the "It Happened at Midnight" liturgical reading, in the style of...I don't even know. A little sloshed on tequila from another seder, he careened around the Zen Room, pounding on drums and hollering "It happened at midnight!" occasionally deviating from the text to muse on the nature of eggs. This was towards the end of Hallel - after the third cup of wine, I think.

And food: my matzah balls turned out dense, but the soup broth was peppery and smooth, full of onions. Masha made a crustless zucchini quiche, with plenty of cheese, and fluffy eggs. There was Tamar's tsimmes, and hard boiled eggs dipped in salt water. By the end of the night, only half of us were left, and I was barely awake. Instead of singing "l'shana habah b'yerushalyim," I sang "l'shana habah b'kibbutz Ravenna," because, really, we need that kind of hope right now.

When I crashed into bed sometime after one am, I was full. Belly, brain and heart full. I think I'm even ready for tonight's seder - which promises to be twice as big.

3/25/2010

Seattle 103.5, or The Awesome Body

I kicked surgical ass. I thought I was going in with the two possible options at the end of surgery being two weeks on crutches, or six weeks on crutches.

Turns out, having to wait so long for this surgery meant the problem HEALED ITSELF. Imagine! No crutches past tomorrow. Back to work after a week. Still got surgery again in 3 months, but this is the beyond-best-possible outcome.

ROCK ON.

Seattle 103, or Today's the Day

Yesterday, my mother arrived around two in the afternoon. I was waiting and ready: fresh loaf of rosemary sourdough cooling on the rack, fridge stuffed with produce and yogurt and treats, a dinner reservation, a plan for the day.

The first hug was, as it generally is, a long, long squeeze, with the far-off suggestion of tears. The sun was out. It was warm. I suggested a picnic.

We sat at a picnic table by the shores of Lake Washington and ate sandwiches - cheddar, spinach, red pepper, mustard - and almonds, seasoned with rosemary and salt. We took a walk. Sometimes, I don't think we'll ever run out of talking.

She came to choir rehearsal. I was too excited, showing off, introducing her to the newest branch of my community. The director asked me to try a small group solo. We did some of my favorite pieces. We're two and a half months away from the concert with no major train wrecks. When we got home, we ate oranges and chocolate with my housemates. Then, we looked up Boston choirs for her to check out. I hope she does.

Today: surgery. I wish we could push this whole visit longer, but the sun is gone, and there's rain on my roof. Must be time to get inside.

3/21/2010

Seattle 102, or On The Passing Of the Health Care Bill

This morning, I was early to choir rehearsal. The sopranos section leader, who's in her 60s, plus me, plus another woman in her 60s, and still another in her 40s, sat down to nosh before rehearsal and talked about the vote.

And out of nowhere, J, (the oldest) looks to C (the other oldest) and says quietly, "I remember holding my friends' hands while they hemorrhaged from coat hangers and we waited for the ambulance."

And the 40 year old and I just sat like we were in the presence of something, while the two of them swapped horror stories like they forgot we were there. They were still talking when the rest of the choir arrived.

3/18/2010

Megabus 1, or Chicago Report

Remember that tendency I have to not write when I'm happy? That's my excuse for leaving you all so neglected while I was in Chicago.
I had an amazing time. Candyce and Billy Tuggle opened their South Side apartment to me, and set me up with a personal record-breaking four gigs in four nights!

The first night was a mini-feature at the Green Mill, the oldest slam, and oldest-running weekly show in Chicago. At 23 years old, and hosted by the inventor of poetry slam, Marc Smith (so what?!), the Green Mill is a fantastic show - a large and engaged crowd encased in a swanky saloon-style bar. I found my friend Roger from New York - he moved not long after I did - and couldn't wait to show off my new work. I did three pieces, one of which spanking new (I'd written it the night before) and rocked them all. Marc did a great job encouraging folks to buy my merch, and even slipped me an unexpected fee, which delighted me. I felt like a bit of a rock star.

The next night was Mental Graffiti, the other big poets' show in Chicago. In stark contrast to the Mill's luxurious booths and swaths of pink, Mental Graffiti is set in a long, narrow bar with awesome decorations and green lighting. Silent movies were being projected against one wall, which made for some interesting mood setting but also distracted me. More poets in this crowd: Roger and Marty, who were in New York at the same time I was, Tristan, Molly, Amy and Tim, all whose work I know. I was a little intimidated when I took the stage, to say the least. The fun part about Mental Graffiti? I did pieces that were less "slam-y" and brought out my "Westlake Station" pantoum, and a couple of other pieces. My old mentors said I'd grown. We went out for dinner afterwards and sat around talking shop. I got paid again! What a strange and wonderful experience.

Tuesday night brought me to what might have been my favorite feature of the week: at Trace bar in Wrigleyville, Billy and the other remembers of PolyRhythmic (a performance troupe) host a weekly open mic. The crowd was small, but I worked it - I'm very used to small crowds, and I liked them. PolyRhythmic's mic brought out my "B-side" work - some slightly older stuff, some stuff I don't perform often. As the feature went on, I felt more and more solid, and felt like I gave one of my best performances. Afterward, we went out for hot dogs and gyros, and tumbled into bed (couch) at two in the morning.

Wednesday, I spent hanging out with non-poets, and got to go explore some more of Uptown. We ate curried tofu on the rocky shore of Lake Michigan, and marveled at day's length (am I the only person who loves Daylight Savings?). I made it to my final feature at Heartland Cafe just in time - it was a small feature, to a variably engaged crowd. I realized that I now have a really good "trigger" piece - "Freude," my piece about singing in choirs. By "trigger" piece, I mean a piece that gets me into a good mood and good performance space, no matter how I'm feeling before I start it. "Freude" was the only piece I did at every performance. I'm in love.

And now the WonderBus barrels down the heartland. The landscape is skeleton trees and evergreens. Tonight, a break from touring to settle down home with cousins and giggles and all the delights of Minneapolis.

3/13/2010

2010 poem-a-day #69

For Dee and Jo

There is always a bride's room
at the wedding site.
Church, synagogue,
reception hall, courthouse
or meadow,
there is some sheltered
place for women to gather
and prepare.

Behind its walls
is a flurry of fabric
and advice, fingers
and last reminders,
bobby pins and warnings.

You won't find me there.

But when you asked
for my help preparing
your final poem
for your next
great performance,
I hopped up on your
hotel-room bed
like a four year old
invited to the wedding prep -
a glimpse of
beauty under construction.

You handed me your draft.
It was as if you'd washed your hair
and handed me the scissors.
You said, "This needs to be cut,
and I trust you."
I thought I was your student.
The four year old is never asked
her opinion on the flowers;
I thought I was there
to watch and learn,
absorb skills to be used
at some later date,
but you pushed me
with the impatience
of an anxious bride,
until I began to edit.

We did it together.
After the first three stanzas,
I stopped asking if you were sure,
climbed into the poem
and settled myself,
thought, for the first time,
that this is as much my craft
as yours.

And when I handed it back,
all I saw was blunted scratch-outs
and arrows, but you looked at it
and nodded like you were sure
you'd done the right thing.

When you took the stage,
I mouthed some of the words,
remembering their adolescence
in your hotel room,
watched you from the first row,
feeling like I was made
of honor.

3/12/2010

Columbus 3, or I Can't Wait for Karen To Post This One

Let me recount the tale of the last time I sobbed uncontrollably in public. It was the end of my first year of college, and the college orchestra was celebrating its 100th year with a concert in Carnegie Hall - the Carnegie Hall. And to celebrate, they brought the choir with them to sing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

My family lived just across the river from Lincoln Center, so they trooped out to see the show, grandparents included. The choir only sings in the fourth of four movements, the familiar refrain of “Ode to Joy.” Beethoven is one of my grandfather’s fifteen or twenty favorite composers. He’s also the one who planted, watered and weeded my love of music. He only cries at operas, their majesty, and their beauty.

As we sang the last bars of “Ode to Joy” I looked away from the conductor, up to where my family was sitting. All I could see were two faint white spots – my grandfather’s shirtsleeves, as he raised his arms above his head a full twenty measures before the music stopped, preparing to clap. As soon as I was off stage, I started crying – hard, deep sobs that made my belly fan in and out. When I stumbled out the stage door, my sister caught me. I cried into her shoulder for long minutes while people tapped me on the back and asked her if I was okay. I didn’t have to tell her; “She’s okay,” she told everyone. “It’s just the music. She’s fine, just give her a minute.” It took twenty “just a minutes,” but I did calm down enough to be gracious.

Fast forward to tonight. Columbus’s Urban Spirit Coffee Shop was the place to be for both bouts. Mine was second, but I showed up for the first, which included Rachel McKibbens (last year’s WoWps champion), Inky Cole (a strong poet from Minnesota with whom I spent most of the afternoon workshopping), and a host of others. People were wrung out by the end. The scores were star-high. There was love, and stomping and mad cheering. The poetry was damn good, but I need to take you to the room. People were packed in, sitting on the floor, craning their necks for a glimpse of the stage. Each round of applause was Florida thunder, complete with ocelot screeches and bellows. People cried. A lot.

Then the second bout - Gypsee Yo, (last year’s second place winner), Jeanann Verlee, Tatayana Brown (an up-and-coming powerhouse from the Bay area), Lauren Zuniga, Copperhead Red, and me. Plus a bunch of others. It was the bout to watch, and it was packed. I was prepared to rock out. I was doing my two favorite poems, and all my old friends from New York were there. I wanted to show them how Seattle has pushed me, changed my work, brought me to a new level of performance. That was all.

I f****** did it.

My first piece, a solid rendition of “Bilingual” got some judge love from the two English teacher judges. It was maybe my second-best performance. But the best performance happened in a bedroom, (get your head out of the gutter, people!) so it doesn’t count. Best on stage for sure.

Melissa May a poet from Oklahoma City, did a piece that began with a quote from Gypsee Yo who promptly stood up and cried, but remained standing for the rest of the poem, watching Melissa. After a wrenching, well-crafted three minutes in which everybody cried (Okay, one tear from me,), Melissa sat down like she’d done what she’d come to do. I wanted that.

My piece began in the crowd – walking, clapping, singing. It’s a great way for me to begin a piece, because my nervousness fades away as I sing. Halfway through the poem came the first mention of my grandfather, and my voice caught in a way I didn’t expect. I nearly choked on the lump that had suddenly appeared in my throat. I was happy. I was so damn happy I could barely get the words of the next piece of singing: a short clip from “Ode to Joy.”

I remembered that night at Carnegie Hall as I finished the poem, singing, marching triumphantly from the stage down the aisle with my fist in the air as the audience roared me out. I crashed into a chair and promptly started crying as hard as I ever have. People didn’t understand; my sister wasn’t there to interpret this time. I said “I’m happy, I’m happy” over and over, as people patted my back, cradled me, and whispered great things.

I couldn’t stop crying for the next two pieces. The tears are coming back as I write this. As I left the venue, Jeanann Verlee, one of the poets whose work I most respect in both writing and performance, caught me in a hug.

“Thank you for making us feel,” she whispered. I shook and blew snot into her coat. “Thank you for your poems.” I pulled back, looked into the face of the woman I so completely admire and squeaked out,

“Are you proud of me?”

She pulled me in again. “Oh honey, why do you even ask? Of course I am. Of course.”

Why do I ask? Because part of being in this community, part of being in this family, means having my elders watch me grow, like my grandfather watched me learn music. How proud he’s been at every concert, every time I can correctly identify a concerto on the radio. I finished that Beethoven piece looking for his shirtsleeves – and what an act of grace that I continue to find them whenever I think to look. I looked at my workshop participants the same way this morning, such proudness, like watching your nieces learn to do cartwheels in the dirt. Grow, women. Push and grow.

I’m proud of me too.

Signing off,
~Dane Kuttler
Finneyfrock Slam News

Columbus 2, or WoWps Reports

Hey, everyone! I'm blogging for Karen Finneyfrock over at her blog. Lots of stuff about WoWps - and Karen's a fantastic blogger, too! Expect more there for the next couple of days!

3/11/2010

Columbus 1, or WoWps Report 1

Here is the first thing anyone should know about poets: they’re good at call-and-response. That is, if someone in “the family” calls, the family responds. Here’s how that looked today:

I woke up this morning in the dark. The flight from Seattle to Chicago was an hour late. I had ten minutes to get from one end of O’Hare to another to catch my connecting flight, and just barely caught it. By the time the plane landed in the Columbus sunset, I was sweaty, grimy, chapped and tired. I’d eaten exactly one Fig Newton and drunk two glasses of EmergenC. I’ had imprints on my face from sleeping on the airplane windowframe.

But when I landed, I called Dave, a Columbus poet who’d been offering rides. Dave and I don’t know each other. He arrived at the passenger pickup just as I walked out. He took my bags, gave me a hug, and herded me into the car. He asked, “Are you most tired, hungry, or anxious?”

“Hungry,” I said instantly, my stomach growling in accompaniment.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “it just so happens that I’ve got four pots of soup sitting at home – which is on our way to the host hotel. What do you think of stopping?”

Another ten minutes, and I was at Dave’s kitchen table with a steaming bowl of chili in one hand, and dill pickle soup in the other (dill pickle soup is made mostly of sour cream and pickle juice. If this sounds good to you, we should probably be friends.) He then pointed me to the nearby hippie co-op grocery so I could get some snacks for later, and drove me to the host hotel in downtown Columbus.

When the family responds, we respond well.

3/10/2010

Seattle 101, or Sourdough

My bread takes three days to make. It starts with yeast, which must culture overnight, in the oven with the light on to keep it warm. In the morning, the kitchen smells like beer. I pour the leftover yeast back into my cloth-covered starter jar, which lives in the fridge. Then, I mix the dough. It's as simple as bread gets: yeast, water, flour. Sometimes, I add herbs or a little olive oil. Then, after ten or fifteen minutes of vigorous kneading, I rest. The dough needs a chance to rest a little, before I add salt, which will slow down the rising. After the rest, I knead a palmful of salt into the dough. When I'm done, it feels silky. I take a palmful of olive oil and rub it all over, so it doesn't develop a tough skin while it rises. Back into the oven with the light on. Four hours.

Next step is shaping, which takes two seconds - stretching the dough, giving the gluten in the flour a chance to arrange itself in long, texture-happy rows. Then I swaddle it in a clean cloth - Tamar's homemade napkins work best - put it in a colander, and stick it in the fridge overnight. This time, I want it to form a tough skin - it helps the crust.

Baking this bread (the next morning) requires more attention than challah - the glaze, a thin mix of water, milk and salt, I keep in a spray bottle in the fridge. The loaf has to be basted every ten minutes or so, to get that rough, shiny crust. Then half an hour to sit and cool once it comes out of the oven.

The five of us who live in the house can finish a loaf of my bread within hours. Somehow, it never feels like a wasted effort. Ilana praises each of my efforts, declaring as she chews, "It's coming along nicely, very nicely." I root around for cream cheese, pesto, any spread. Lately, as the yeast has aged, it's gotten beautifully sour, and I hardly put anything on it. It's something I never thought I would make, never imagined myself doing. I've always been a compulsory baker - challah only, nothing beyond what's required. But this sourdough - it brings a kind of quiet joy to the house, to the kitchen, in the smell of beer and toasted flour, knowing that wonderful bite is only a few days away.

3/02/2010

Seattle 100, or poem-a-day #60

[one of my favorite standard prompts: letter to oneself]

Dear sweet, wrenched heart,

I came to visit you, because
I wanted to remember this -
this first deep breath of living on my own.
I'm not surprised I found myself
hoarding glue and macaroni,
convinced I could make a family
out of leftover nostalgia
and a few nights of laughter.
But I'm glad I got here.
I remember that relief
of finding people
I could lean on,
when my family's shoulders
were so far away.

But this is a resting place,
dollface. You know it already,
which is why I can say it out loud.
You moved to this city
to learn how to be a dandelion,
how to be a compost heap,
how to churn and transform
and grow,
and instead you've moved
into a greenhouse.

I'm not telling you to move.
I know you're scared,
no matter how much you think
you have no right to be.

I know the intricate vines
of grateful and guilty
have trellised themselves
to your heart.
I know the doubts
that keep you up at night.

I'm here to tell you
it's bedtime. Take the world
off your shoulders.
It'll still be there
in the morning,
next to your coffee,
your housemates in their bathrobes,
eating the bread you baked.