Twin Cities 1, or The Kindness of Strangers

It isn't as hot as I thought it's be. I have memories of Minnesota summers, of fist-sized mosquitos and a thick, unwavering, sticky heat: grass and sweat, and slow-moving people. But this time, summer is coming in cycles: heat, building humidity, then a storm, a cooling, a drying-out. It's already softening my skin, my smiles. Even my teeth don't seem as sharp here as they do among the newer mountains.

My arrival was the usual flurry of poet godliness - a meeting at the airport, a whisking off to delicious dinner and patient errand-running (these airline laws about me not being allowed to carry a whole bottle of hair gel on board has really got my groat), followed by an near-impromptu sleeping arrangement among cats and air mattresses.

It's a good life, the road.

Today, I got to meet my entire team for the first time - tired, stressed, and somewhat bedraggled, but absolutely ready for the intense weekend. We held a fundraiser slam tonight, which was only disappointing in its lack of community support - not a single member of the two other Twin Cities teams showed up. They're tired, I was told. There have been events every night this week, and everyone's trying to rest up for Nationals. I understand, but I'm irritated for my team. They worked hard to put this together. It doesn't seem fair. I don't want them to think the more experienced teams don't care about their sweetie rookie selves.

Nevertheless, the slam went well - I even competed, and came in dead last, but to good reviews from the audience. I got to see my team compete live, which got me excited to work with them. And now I'm at Lici's (only using nicknames, since I don't have their permission - but anyone who knows Slovak will know this poet's real name) parent's house, in one of their two guest rooms. This sweet, old, beautiful, spacious house, with its solid floors and thick doors, ceiling fans and wide wooden windowsills. It reminds me of Aunt G and Uncle H's house in Cresskill. I am sleeping under a patchwork quilt in a room that smells more like home than any I've been in in over a year. Lici's parents will make us brunch in the morning, before we start rehearsing.

Seattle 133, or Happiness also looks like this

Yep, that's my sweet old neighbor below me. Some of you haven't seen her since she was in middle school. Isn't she a rockstar?

Seattle 132, or When We Were Happy

Seattle 131, or Video!

Where I live and with whom I do it: an eight minute video, half with music.

Also, familia - I will be out of phone contact until Sunday afternoon because I'm going CAMPING! YAY! I'll have pictures and maybe a story or two when I get back.

Seattle 130, or Poem for Maya Hersh

My friend Maya got stuck in a cave. Kind of like Winnie-the-Pooh, but way less funny. She's fine, now. Here's the article.

And here's what I wrote while we were waiting for news.

Spiders can make their homes anywhere two pieces of solid are close enough to be web-tied. You’ve moved homes more times than I cared to help you carry the couch but in each one, you mounted the spider identification poster first – usually in the kitchen – and refuse to touch any existing webs. I started looking at spiders differently after I knew you awhile. They stopped scaring me, first, and then, at your insistence, I started laying bottle caps of sugar water wherever I found webs. Spiders bring good luck you say. Feed her like a welcome guest. You’d never let me go hungry, would you?

Wherever you’ve gone, the spiders have followed. They guarded the comings and goings of you and every lover to ever trespass your home. You have always been a weaver. If I watch your hips closely enough, I can see webs where your hips have been, and I have watched too many people walk through them, brush your magic from their faces like what the hell did I walk into?

When I got the call that you’d gotten yourself stuck in a cave while hiking with your family, and the rescue workers were too big to grab you, it didn’t occur to me that you might be scared.

The first summer we spent apart, I trolled the streets without lights, wishing you were there to share the restless night prowl, and in the middle of hopping a fence, your eight-legged self crawled straight over my hand like hey, like I’m never as far away as you think I am.

Three thousand miles away, we who love you collected news stories and secondhand phone lines and strung them to one another, arched a web of questions and reassurances until the tension held us tight. I know you already know that spider silk is stronger than steel. I wondered ig you could feel our web ghostkissing your working forehead like we’re not as far away as you think we are, like hold on. We got each other. You just take care of yourself.

When you told me you were scared, I didn’t believe you. You are more cave than city streets, more pine needles than asphalt, more spider than scaffold, you’ve got backpacking bones, girl, woodpecker tenacity. None of us doubted you. They told me you’d gotten a hammer from the rescue workers and were chipping yourself out, and I laughed. You spider. No matter what, you just keep spinning, keep moving, and I imagine we were all laughing, the way we do when things are going to be okay, when the whiskey we’re drinking turns from worry into toasts.

Seattle 129, or Poem-a-day #195

This poem is sort of for Alice, and all the other novelistas with whom I'm slowly growing kinship.

Raizl. Rasia. Rachel.

Tonight, there’s a blizzard
between us, a veil of static.
She is a shaky shifting shadow
of a poem, too uncertain
to translate.

Her poems are moonlit deer:
half shadow,
half dart.

I wait for her in the trees,
net in hand, in case
she looks ready to bolt.
Sometimes, I catch her
as she glitters over the horizon.

Other nights, I climb down
so we can have tea
and conversation
while I scribble notes.

Or we lie in the field,
elbow to elbow,
hip to hip,
gulping stars.

In the morning,
she leaves her tracks
on paper. Sometimes,
I don’t even remember
my part in it: her vehicle,
her hands, her manic typist
with rough feet
and a slow burning lantern.

Seattle 128, or Poem-a-day #135

The 7 Stages Of The First Ten Minutes After You Get The News About Her Parents, And The Cancer

1) Teeth. You turn into a lion. The transformation starts immediately. Stand over her body and roar, and roar, and roar. Silence is a threat; do not let it advance.

2) Claws. Scratch her back, gently. Do not make her talk.

3) Silence. Pretend it's deliberate.

4) Babble. Ask questions. Demand the details you think no one else wants to hear. Start doing research. Don't tell her.

5) Bugle. You will want to tell everyone, as though organizing a strike. Make the first person tell you to stop doing that. It's not you who needs an army.

6) Art. Scour your ventricles for wisdom. Print it.

7) Call. In the morning. Make a schedule of phone dates, saving at least an hour for each one. Tell her she can ride on your back any time, and shouldn't fear your teeth.

Seattle 127, or Market to Market

In Seattle, nobody just goes to the market. In the same way that nobody just goes to the coffee shop, but to their coffee shop, Seattlites go to their farmer's market. It could be the one in their neighborhood - there are over a dozen throughout the city. It could be the one with the best cheese vendor, the preferred produce farm, or the only one to sell mutton.

My market is Saturday mornings, one of the bigger ones, but it grows and shrinks throughout the year. It's at its fullest now - four rows of stalls, and a few scattered vendors on the green. It's in the parking lot of the neighborhood community center - there's a playground, and a picnic spot, and music everywhere.

I usually do my weekly grocery shopping at the market - vegetables, eggs, cheese, fish - but with the weekly farm box coming in, I've no need for basics. Today, I came in with a hankering for a gallon jug of the apple cider vinegar that makes my beans taste magical, but they were sold out - everyone's doing their canning and pickling now. I'll have to wait until next week.

I decide to have fun instead. The heat in Seattle has been glorious this week, inspiring salads and cold pasta and gazpacho. I pick up tomatoes, fresh basil, a ball of mozzerella. Almost as an aside, I pick up a quart of chocolate milk - made with cocoa powder instead of syrup, so it's not too sweet. I drink half of it in the shade, waiting for D to finish shopping, savoring the bits of cream and chocolate across my tongue.

Seattle 126, or Poem-a-day #193

Loving A Man Whose Father is Dying

is like holding a chrysalis
on the verge of breaking:
wet, unsteady,
full of wait
and promises of when.

Seattle 125, or She Floats Through the Air...with effort

But makes the catch! From yesterday's class.

Seattle, 124, or Culture Shock Storytime with Miss Colleen

My friend Miss Colleen, who, as some of you might know, is living and teaching in the Czech Republic (a medium-length train ride from Prague, in Kolín.) She has written some thoughts on second-wave culture shock - a state at which I never arrived, being in Prague for only a few months. (Click on the above link to find her article.)

It made me think about the smaller, subtler culture adjustments I've made to living in Seattle - always greeting bus drivers, and expecting to be greeted, practicing being polite without being 'invasive' or starting a conversation. I don't dress like a Seattleite - and I didn't notice it until I went back east and realized how much I still dress like an east coaster. Or maybe I just dress like a small townie in the middle of a city.

The skyline has begun to look familiar, even when I'm not looking at the Space Needle. The drive home from the airport feels like coming home. And mostly, when I'm traveling and people ask me where I'm from, I say here. Seattle. Western Washington, King County. Land of huckleberries and salmon.

Seattle 123, or A Very Merry Unbirthday

I planned my birthday party so it would fall about two weeks after my birthday. I invited all my friends, including some poets to do a special feature poetry show as the main entertainment. Then I sat down and planned the menu. The party was a potluck, but I wanted to be sure certain elements made it to the table. For example: at least one loaf of my sourdough.

(Pictured at right, and below - two different loaves. They're pretty much the most beautiful breads I've managed to make yet.)

Also: garlic scapes, and summer fruits, like baby apricots. Olive tapenade. Pasta salad.

It was a wonderful party, complete with poems and a rousing game of Le Poop, or That Game We All Played That One Thanksgiving With The Proper Nouns in a Hat. At least one person found a new poetry addiction. There was laughter, and twilight, and rose petal lemonade with sweet tea and good cheeses. There was a decadent chocolate-raspberry cake, and a perfectly seasoned strawberry rhubarb lattice-topped pie. Most everything was homemade.

I hope my birthday celebrations always come with good eating.

*In other news: I have a camera! Expect more food pictures to come!*