Seattle 155, or Echoing Rooms

My Secret Agent Lover Man looks up as I walk into the (no longer does it seem like my) room, freshly showered after a day of doctor's offices and packing. I'm still a little giddy from having successfully offloaded our three couches onto strapping young university students. It seems like everything is going to get done, and this move is going to be Okay. We go over the logistics of the next few days one more time -

"...and then Landlord walks us through at 7:30 am Monday morning. And then Joel and Martina drive off into the sunrise, and I...I get my stuff to your house and go for a checkup at 4."

It's the middle part that catches me. Soon, very soon, we will be gone from this house and community. And Joel - well, we're good friends. Our relationship exists largely in conversation. When I miss him, I'll call him, and we'll talk until we're caught up, and that'll be that.

Martina is another story. She's my farmer's market buddy, my bacon conspirator, the one with whom I can talk in eyebrows and glances. We live well together. Our conversations don't stray into the very deep or personal. We agree about house cleanliness standards. We can get irritated with one another without fearing it'll wreck the friendship. But we won't call. She likes handwritten letters; maybe one or two of those will happen. But Martina is the greatest loss I feel right now.

This is weird. I mean, my community is largely dissolving - this is the group of people who have taken care of me, and shared my life for the last two years, and this could very well be the last time I get to do this communal living thing on such a scale. But it hasn't hit me yet.

SALM watches me as I talk about J&M leaving. He extends his one good hand (he broke his wrist last week) and tilts his head until I look him in the eye.

"You can be vulnerable with me," he says. "You're tough. You don't cry in front of me, and I know it's partially because you're always thinking about holding me together. Holding us together. And I've needed a lot of help this week. But I'm here now, and I'm not going to break if you need to cry over the kibbutz."

I rest my head in his lap for a minute, but I feel antsy. There's still too much to do. This loss isn't allowed to hit me until I'm far enough away from it. Columbus, maybe. Perhaps Boston.

But in the meantime, I can sigh over the loss of a great housemate. That much I can grieve. So I tell him about Martina. About how I can count on her for wardrobe advice and how we can vent about our lives without getting too wrapped up in each other. About her willingness to go places with me, to make food together. He nods. I nod. He leans over to kiss my forehead and I duck away. Maybe it's true what he says, that he can handle me breaking down. But I can't handle me breaking down yet. There's still too much to do. And as long as there's a to-do list, the Kibbutz isn't really gone.

Seattle 154, or Farewells: The Beginning

My bags are not packed. I'm not even close to ready to go. My room is full of unpacked boxes and unsold furniture (anybody need a desk?), and to top it off, I've contracted the currently-in-circulation Death Cold. I blame Secret Agent Lover Man's preschoolers, or perhaps one or more of my Beloved Housemates.

But. Even in the midst of chaos and wet handkerchiefs, there is music. And poetry. There is art, because the final Kibbutz Coffeehouse was last night. And oh boy, was it terrific. It started with my homemade dinner - which did not involve me! I invited a Brigade of Extraordinary And Exceedingly Handsome Gentlemen to do all the cooking while I sat out of the kitchen, swallowed cold medicine, slurped tea and called out instructions about how to julienne the greens, and how finely to chop the garlic.

The resultant menu?

- Pasta with garlic butter and sauteed greens

- Warm beet salad with tahini-lemon dressing

- Balsamic-roasted carrots

- Cocounut-red-curry sunchoke gratin

- Stewed black beans with garlic and tomatoes

- Homemade whole wheat bread

- Thick, fudgy brownies with dried cherries and caramel sauce

Doesn't that sound fantastic? Too bad it all got eaten before I could sneak any pictures!

The Coffeehouse itself was wonderful; we had two chamber trios, a quintet from the Seattle Jewish Chorale (including me!), Oscar the poet, Diana the prose writer (Yes, YVLM, *that* Diana), Ben and Irina the singers/guitar players, Mai Li the musician, a solo from Joel (see photo), and two sets of poems from me, tissue box in hand.

We had close to 50 people in attendance, packing sweet ol' Gimel. And everyone loved it - newbies and veterans alike.

And so begins the au revoir to Seattle...

Seattle 153, or Some Catchup on that Shaggy Dog

I've just grueled through a 12 and 1/2 hour night shift (with a nap, so it's not as bad as it sounds), but I'll try to give a decent update through my morning fogface.

First of all: cool news! Another Passion blog, written by none other than Rasmus Rasmussen (I swear, it's his legal name) published an interview with me today! The photos are stunning, if I do say so myself, and the shoot was an absolute pleasure. Now to the story of the weekend.

Secret Agent Lover Man and I were supposed to head for Portland this weekend, for a day or two of frivolity, good food, and gallivanting. We had plans to spend hours getting lost in Powells, the "city of books," or what I like to call the Left-Coast Strand. We were going to stay in a famous hostel, eat like kings, and wander the oh-so-flat and pedestrian-friendly roads of Seattle's sister city.

But a mudslide in southern Washington and some incompetence on Amtrak's part left us stranded in our hometown for the weekend. Oych. Nevertheless, we decided we were still on vacation, no matter what! And with that assertion, we set off for Big John's. Because Good Food was still the top of the priority list.

Big John's Pacific Food Imports is kind of like Jerry's Gourmet, from where I grew up. It's smaller, to be sure, and with a more Greek focus than Italian, but the feeling is the same - a warehouse of cheap, perfect Mediterranean meats, cheese, spices and groceries. You're only permitted to buy cheese, olives and meat by the pound - no half-pounds, no wimpy measurements. You must have absolute conviction in your choice of cheese and meat, so they offer as many free samples as you like. SALM and I sampled our way down the counter, and eventually picked up a pound of kashkaval - my father's golden cheese, the one he can't find in Boston, of which he is in everpresent pursuit. We added a pound of sopressata salami, and a pound of juicy kalamata olives to the mix, and decided to drop by SALM's parents' house for lunch.

Lunch at SALM's parents' house is a little like lunch with any big family of good eaters - loud, laugh-filled, story-sparkling. We explained about our mishaps with the train and decided to come back later in the evening to make use of the backyard hot tub. It's not vacation without a Jacuzzi, right?

The next day, we headed for the International District, and walked around, smelling fresh hum bao and roasted duck, cilantro and sesame, ginger and scallions. The Seattle Pinball Machine Museum - a room full of pinball machines with unlimited play for $7 - warranted a stop, as did a neighborhood history museum. Lunch was Sechuaneze food, as only can be found in Chinatown. And after we stuffed ourselves on all things hot, sour, spicy and filling, we walked to Pike Place Market and enjoyed the view of the water, showing each other our favorite spots in the market.

At the end of a long weekend, we rested our tired feet in the always-exciting Left Bank Books. I read about how to shower out of a recycled bleach bottle while living on the road, and how to saddle-stitch your own books. SALM read a giant knitting book and occasionally quoted out loud to me. By the time we made our way home to eat leftover cheese, olives, and Chinese food, there was no doubt left: we'd been on vacation, damnit. Right here in Emerald City.

Seattle 152, or Voteformevoteforme!

To kick off my tour, I'm competing at the Women of the World Poetry Slam. And I have the opportunity to get there for free! The Brenda Mossy Video Slam is up and running - some of you remember when I did this two years ago. Well, I have a brand new performance up for judgement HERE and I'd love it if you voted for me! People are eligible to vote once an hour, so bookmark it and come back when you're waiting for other things to happen.

Seattle 151, or Freude

Once upon a time, I moved to Seattle to become a better poet. And shortly after I moved, I went to the Seattle Poetry Slam Slammaster, a man named D, and asked him if I could do a feature. I wanted to use the feature to introduce myself to the slam community.

"Nope," he said cheerfully, as he tallied the night's scores. "You're not ready."

So I went and I worked. I took classes, found mentors, and began to really work on my poetry. I competed in every slam, and went to national events. And after six months, I went back and asked again.

"Nope," he said again. "Not quite yet. You're getting better, though."

So I went and I worked. I began the 365/365 project, placed in the finals of a national written poetry competition, wrote a book, attended more national slams and coached a team. And when I went back to ask again, D said:

"Maybe next year."

So I went and I worked. I found a publisher for my book and began editing it. I finished the 365/365 project, and made a rough draft of a novel-in-verse. I continued to slam every week, and wrote reviews of the performances. And when I came back from visiting my family over new years, I asked D one more time if I might do a feature sometime, maybe the end of the year.

"Sure," he said, with a casual tilt of his head. "You're ready. When do you want to do it?"

Doing a local feature is a little like having a birthday party. It's a special celebration of a very regular occurrence. I perform poems at the slam every week, but somehow, everyone went out of their way to tell me how much they enjoyed my work, or how much I'd grown.

I even got dressed up in a bona fide party dress. See?

Also, see those tights? If you look at them up close, they have pictures and quotes from Spenser's The Fairie Queene - making them perhaps the geekiest literary stockings that ever were.

The performance itself was fantastic. Not only was the audience full of people I loved (Joel, Martina, Secret Agent Lover Man and Duncan - my current inner circle of houesmates and loves - made up the entire front row, and beamed at me whenever I looked down), but at least half a dozen people came up to buy books and tell me they'd never been to a slam before. That's my favorite compliment: "I've never seen anything like this, and I love it!"

I performed seven poems - Freude, Names (which is on my website), Shifra The Midwife Speaks to the Protesters Outside Planned Parenthood, Love Me Like A Man (a piece by my friend Lindsay Miller that I was honored to cover), a Raizl/Rachel poem, Man (a new piece), and Bilingual. Four of those pieces were accompanied by my friend and collaborator Mai Li Pittard on guitar and vocals. The music and poetry worked well together, and having Mai Li up on stage was really fun.

I sold a dozen books, and got lots of hugs. It was a great show.

At the end of the night, I felt like this:

Freude. Joy.

*Thanks to Rachel McNary and Jan Pylar for the photos!