tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-383726862024-03-07T15:24:08.928-05:00I'm a Stranger Here MyselfNotes on traveling, and other stuff, like poems.Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.comBlogger410125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-22798872379698106012012-01-15T03:40:00.000-05:002012-01-15T03:41:09.190-05:00Seattle 169, or After Coming HomeOn the walk home,<br />Seattle’s first snow drools<br />from the Craftsman roofs.<br />Their shingles sag<br />from so many winters<br />spent crying.<br /><br />Seattle air tastes<br />like silt and silicon,<br />like city tap water.<br /><br />I miss Boston. It too, is a city,<br />but of more bricks than concrete.<br />Its wind stabs the throat like icicles,<br />sharp enough to cut tongues,<br />to cherry your hollowed lips,<br />entice you to keep drinking.Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-30766956113003444692011-11-13T13:06:00.003-05:002011-11-13T13:14:41.523-05:00Seattle 168, TDR<div><i>Transgender Day of Remembrance an annual ritual in the queer community. Each community marks it in a slightly different way, but there is one element in common: the reading of the names of every trans person who has been murdered in the last year. There is never a year without names. It is a sad time, always set in late November, when the days are short and the skies often gray. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But many of us in the queer community aren't content to stand around and grieve once a year, shivering and crying as the wind and rain extinguish our candles. We are the ones who work year-round to create safe spaces, legislation, support networks and options for queer and trans people. This is for us, and for everyone.</i></div><div><br /></div>Trans Day of Remembrance<br /><br />Let their names be counted.<br />Let them be remembered, let their stories<br />hang like myth and legend over our hearts.<br />Let’s pool the flames of each candlelight vigil,<br />and invite their ghosts to the bonfire.<br /><br />Let this remind the world that we are here,<br />and we are watching, and when we lose family,<br />we throw them the kind of funeral that can’t<br />be swept into a closet. Let’s make public altars,<br />throw them concerts, write obituaries,<br />ink their names in our most naked places.<br />These are the duties of survivors.<br /><br />But let it be more<br />than solemn recitation;<br />let it be revival.<br />Let banjo parties and casserole dinners<br />be born from their ashes.<br />Let's reach for the ones we fought with,<br />put seeds in one another's hands,<br />and hold tight. Let's coax joy from November skies<br />and dance like we’re headstone sober<br />but oh, so alive. Alive to speak<br />and cry and scream and scrape our knees<br /><br />and go home together. Leave the park<br />for the kitchen, leave the graveyard<br />for the bar, grab your violins<br />and your drumsticks,<br />toss a toast to every<br />weary smile to<br />their lives, our lives.<br />To the ones who are still here –<br />let’s make it count.<br /><div><br /></div><div>(c) Dane Kuttler, 2011</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-25770076709486242372011-09-28T15:47:00.004-05:002011-09-28T17:32:41.469-05:00Seattle 167, or Revisions and Rosh HashanahMy <a href="http://lesleanewman.com/">brilliant editor </a>and I have been doing some back-and-forth over my rewrites. It's largely been great, because I knew my first draft was really rough (I mean, come on, what first draft isn't?) and I was excited to have her rip it apart - I mean, gently nudge me in the right direction, so my second draft would be cohesive, exciting, and brilliant.<div><br /></div><div>Last week, I sent her the first 25 pages of my rewrite. I was so excited. There were new poems! Old poems had been completely deleted! Timelines had been altered! Characters had been fleshed out! I was positive that she was going to send me a letter of utter kvelling, before maybe offering to fly me to Massachusetts so we could spend some time discussing the brilliance of my work over cappuccino, and then maybe she'd introduce me to her agent, who'd immediately send it to every major publisher to get the bidding war going.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's totally what happened. You believe me, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's some of the 15-page critique (for 25 pages of poems):</div><div><br /></div><div><i>...it doesn't seem that this is a major rewrite. My previous questions are still unanswered...try to think about major rewrites of poems. Often a finished poem barely resembles the first, second, fifth, twelfth draft. See if you can dig deeper...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Well, if that doesn't just pop my balloons, Editor. </div><div><br /></div><div>In all honesty, I'm not actually mad or all that frustrated - she's absolutely right, after all. It's old, well-worn advice, advice I've given many many times. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now we're on break for the High Holidays (Editor herself being a fabulous Jew), and I won't send her anything until after next week. I've promised myself that I'm going to let go of the book for a few days, go to synagogue, visit the Kibbutz for dinner, blast shofar, and pray.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this critique rings true for me in so many ways; I can't just let go of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every Rosh Hashanah, which, let's face it, is not as much a holiday as it is a litany of the Things We Should Be Doing Better, I review every way in which I might've hurt people in the previous year. The list is long, and usually incomplete. In the last few years, I've started writing letters to some people on the list asking for their forgiveness. It's exhausting, to spend that much time with my worst self - to sift through the ugliest parts of me, figuring out what I can salvage, and what I really, really need to try and get rid of this year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sound like anything else I've been working on?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm really going to try to let my novel go, and instead focus on myself, instead of my novel-as-metaphor-for-self. I'll let you know how that goes.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, Shana Tovah, a Gut Yor, and may you all have sweet, contemplative New Years!</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-49369270511135128052011-09-21T12:50:00.003-05:002011-09-21T16:07:25.942-05:00Seattle 166, or poemMost of what I've been writing lately has been Raizl/Rachel, but I had the opportunity to go to a workshop led by one of my <a href="http://www.rachelmckibbens.com/">very favorite poets</a>. She told us to write a poem in which you, the writer, the person, are in someone else's dream; in fact, the other person doesn't know it's a dream, because they cannot see you. Your job is to make them a very, very good dream by doing magical things. <div><br /></div><div>As soon as we began to write, I began to cry. There are very few things in the world that have that effect on me, to be honest, but my grandparents - and, frankly, old people in general - seem to sit on my tear ducts more than most things. I can hear horrific stories about the evils of the world without letting it touch me too hard - but if I see an older person being mocked, ignored, or somehow stripped of any dignity, I turn into an angry bull. Hearing old people talk about being old often makes me cry, in a sweet way. Anyway, this poem is about an older woman. In her dream, I get to return her young body to her. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you see</div><div>your sweet young feet</div><div>come out</div><div>from under the covers</div><div>like a pair of prairie dogs,</div><div><br /></div><div>don't be afraid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I promise,</div><div>you will not Medusa them back</div><div>into cicada husks. </div><div>I traded eight years</div><div>and my name</div><div>for this,</div><div>so,</div><div>these are <i>your</i> feet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your skin has returned</div><div>from Lizard Land,</div><div>your are your husband's</div><div>doe-eyed teacher again,</div><div>the one from which</div><div>he learned everything about love.</div><div><br /></div><div>The bed will be too soft, now.</div><div>Rise in one motion,</div><div>gazelle yourself out the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>The lake is there,</div><div>and a sparrow is calling you Grandma</div><div>and you don't know why.</div><div><br /></div><div>You don't answer,</div><div>because the lake is made of goulash,</div><div>and you are hungry</div><div>for the first time</div><div>since you realized</div><div>you would never be perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>When you are full,</div><div>a choir of strangers</div><div>who call you Mom</div><div>will come with their</div><div>soup bowls and sing all the water</div><div>back into your flesh.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will be so pink again,</div><div>baby-tongue pink. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is no loneliness.</div><div>You trade your afternoon television</div><div>to an owl</div><div>for passage up a snowy mountain.</div><div>He leaves you at the top,</div><div>where a mariachi band</div><div>blesses you over and over</div><div>with roses.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will hear his voice, then,</div><div>on another mountaintop,</div><div>and know,</div><div>from the first step,</div><div>that you can walk there.</div><div><br /></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-68288308727465086992011-09-03T02:10:00.002-05:002011-09-03T02:21:41.360-05:00Seattle 165, or DiveGuess what? I'm writing a book! For real this time. Not that my first book wasn't real, but let's be honest: it was a collection of the Very Best Poems I Ever Wrote. Not exactly cohesive, unless you know me.<div>
<br /></div><div>But this book? It's a Real Book. It's still poems, but it's a STORY. Told in POEMS. Not like an epic, but like a novel. I mean, I think it's pretty epic. But Joseph Campbell would vehemently disagree, so I'll stick to novel.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Anyway, some of you have seen some of the poems in this novel - I started writing it when I was doing 365/365 last year. They're the Raizl/Rachel poems, about the Polish woman who fights with the Resistance during the war, and then gets married to an American GI and basically discovers over the course of her life that a) the war never leaves, and b) it's okay to trust people again.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I decided to invest a lot in this book by hiring an editor - a writer I respect and admire (and has some 50+ books to her credit), who has quickly started identifying many bad writing habits I have. She's basically done the literary equivalent of painting my fingernails with hot sauce - every time I start to write a poem, she snaps in my head, "Oh, watch your first stanzas, will you?! They're always so expository, and you really don't need them."</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But truthfully, I'm thrilled. After taking the manuscript as far as I thought I could go by myself, her commentary has invigorated me. I've already rewritten a quarter of the poems, and I can feel myself striding through them with more confidence, and a clearer sense of what I want to say. I've changed things I was afraid to change and I'm even on the verge of deleting a character and merging her with another one (eek!).</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Basically, after a few months of post-tour lagging and blues, I've picked up again. I'm writing with a much greater sense of purpose, I'm inviting people over for dinner again, and I've stopped feeling (for now) like I completely suck at being a grownup. I even feel a bit like a real writer.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The only problem? This book has completely eaten my desire to slam and compete, and I'm registered for a major competition in October. I know it's important that I keep going to national slams - they are a vital, necessary way I connect with my community - but right now, my head is somewhere else. Poland. Westchester. Forhenwald DP Camp. Oberlangen POW Camp. And inside the heads of some fascinating, smart, bitter people.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I'm writing a book! It sneaks up on me every so often, like really good news. I'm writing a book!</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-8279714937489804092011-08-13T22:17:00.003-05:002011-08-19T15:31:23.200-05:00Seattle 164, or Fiction<span class="Apple-style-span"><div><span class="Apple-style-span">(Sometimes, the Fiction Monster takes little bites out of my heels until I figure out something to do with her.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div>G-d and I meet for lunch at a place neither of us have ever been to, but the Yelp reviews are fantastic, and it’s halfway between our houses. The paparazzi arrive just after we do, and I thank my stylist, Melanie, who agreed to a short-notice appointment this morning and managed to get rid of my split ends. Not that I thought G-d would care, but this is New York City and some things just matter. G-d looks at the menu miserably and says,</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Would you keep it a secret if I ordered the veal? I’ve gotten eight thousand emails from every kind of vegetarian, Hindu to hippie in the last hour alone, and my inbox really can’t handle that kind of publicity.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />I nod, and G-d asks for some drinks with our meal. The waiter starts to make a joke about holy water, but his tongue turns into a snake that then bites him on the ass and he shuts up.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“I hate that line,” G-d mutters. “The tap water’s bad enough in this town without stale prayers floating around in it.” I nod with extra sympathy, as if I know something about holy water. G-d kicks off her flip-flops and runs her fingers through her beard and asks,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“So, why me?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />I want to say something about Krishna being booked solid till next October, or the way Horus never returns my phone calls, or how the Flying Spaghetti Monster has turned into a complete diva since the website launched, but instead, I start inhaling my osso buco, and spill a spoonful of wine sauce down the front of my shirt. I reach for my water glass, but G-d points to my chest and, following a sudden burst of warmth, my shirt is completely clean.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Thanks,” I say. “Really, I just wanted to pick your brain about some things, see if I could find some answers.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“7,” says G-d.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Excuse me?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Well, you were looking for answers. 3+4, days of the week, last digit of Pi…”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Really? Pi has a last digit?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />“Yes, but don’t tell the mathematicians. They’d lose faith, and that’s way more fun than answers.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “I guess I wanted to know if you were planning to cut my grandmother a break any time soon. Like, either let her die or ease up on her body. She’s in a lot of pain.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “That’s really what you want?” says G-d, who would be raising an eyebrow, if she had eyebrows. “I offered you the answer to one of your people’s greatest mathematical mysteries and you instead ask me if a human is going to die?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “At least I didn’t ask you to end any wars,” I shoot back.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “And I’m glad you didn’t,” G-d says with a huff. “I’m not IN the war department. There’s a reason Death exists, you know. He’s a fabulous secretary, and what’s more, he handles all the war and medical research, which leaves me much freer in the afternoons.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “Medical research?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “Absolutely. Doesn’t it make sense, to pair up the things that try to control mortality?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “Fair enough. Can I have a bite of your veal?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “Of course,” says G-d, pushing the plate towards me. “Listen, darling, this was a fabulous choice of restaurant. I’m glad we had time to catch up. Last time I saw you, you were too busy fighting Death to really pay attention. Tell your grandmother I said hello, and I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “I will, but I doubt that’ll make her feel any better.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /> “Right,” says G-d, floating towards the door. “Right.”</span>
<br /></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-59206578439422963482011-08-08T21:22:00.001-05:002011-08-10T22:49:03.610-05:00Paradox 1, or FamilyThe first dive into the lake is a homecoming - she's so gentle right now, two feet of warm before the cold undercurrent, glassy surface, easy swimming. All the trees survived winter, and the house is sound, cool. I'm here, and things feel almost right. I wish SALM was here. He loves the woods, even though he's a city boy.
<br />
<br />Saturday night, and there are cousins and friends, and all the young'uns have decided to make dinner, and I'm in charge. And here, too, is home - not the one I grew up with, but I love bossing everyone around the kitchen, seeing the meal take shape under five different knives. The parents stand back, mix drinks, offer advice to the younger ones. Allie and I share the stove with our easy dance, seasoning each others' dishes without asking, because we trust each other like that. She grates lime zest into the beans until they shimmer in my mouth. The peppers, onions, cukes, chard, potatoes and tomatoes are all from Tom, the grizzled gardener who owns a plumbing parts store and grows magic in his yard.
<br />
<br />
<br />After the cousins go home, the house is quiet with just five. Allie, Jake, my mother and I play word games and curl up on the couch, singing - ballads and pirate songs, 70s folk-pop and college standards. I haven't sung in so long.
<br />
<br />I hop up on the water skis for just twelve seconds - long enough to prove I can still do it (I'm not chicken!), but I still really, really hate water skiing. The cousins go after that, zipping around the lake like pros.
<br />
<br />Today, there is enough rain to justify a trip into town - to the farmer's market, the library, maybe the pottery shed.
<br />
<br />Always, always, there's promises whispering -<i> you will come back here. This is where you belong, girl, in our sticky heat and snowstorms. You're welcome.</i>
<br />Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-56876074789416056722011-07-29T15:26:00.006-05:002011-07-30T01:54:31.029-05:00Seattle 163, or Food<div>In the middle of July, I wake up early one Saturday morning. SALM snores softly next to me, but I am more restless than I've been in months. I feel excited, and I don't know why. Maybe it's the sunshine, finally getting to me.<br /><br />I nudge SALM. "Hey, I'm going to get a head start on the market today. I want to make sure I get a chicken from the Ranch of Happy Meat."</div><div><br />He burrows deeper into the covers and mumbles, "Have fun with that." I bounce out of bed and steal one of his grandmother's giant shopping bags (formerly used for quilting supplies).<br /><br />The market is almost quivering with abundance. So many things are making their way into the stands - basil, tomatoes and baby beets and carrots are saying hello, while scapes and asparagus have their farewell signs up. I find a good little chicken from the Ranch of Happy Meat, some scapes, greens, a few jewel-like tomatoes, a bunch of palm-sized onions, two small bags of basil. </div><div><br /></div><div>I consider buying an olive-and-herb fougasse for SALM, but as I'm deciding, my phone buzzes. SALM is on his way, and wants fish and milk. I stop by the fish guys to make sure there's plenty of SALM's favorite sockeye lox, make a mental note to pick up their fresh salmon roe next week, and reserve a bottle of milk from the Farm Across The Water. Then I stop by the Apple Guys for a treat - a big glass of fresh cider blended with nothing but ice. I park myself in the shade and wait for SALM.</div><div><br />And this, my darlings, is what happened to all of it:</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpGRN71TEYFEkizzvB6AlfvAcbUBNQmaPOby-7Nj9Bz6Ba9qNRYFhpshaBmefeputTHBqar9FYWGvzh8kQVJB5sM1FG4ic1QvshJ3OZNISAZiRptGMdzrfXKAV3jgO7sDEQai/s400/pesto+in+progress+July+11.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 387px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634875915950592802" /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Pesto, enough for four meals. I never freeze pesto; it's just not worth the loss of flavor. I'd rather savor it when it's in season and eat all I can.<br /></div></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhiHhaXNo8xqSAJxMuAcFEqLAlJa8thUn5OUBxNr6GQ_Cb8sEMsFPD3RXKuGQnObHfCjcnzGEkVxI-P2EBtHajRUApfuQizVo-C8Q76cWj7lIcPFGj_j4IwXaEMPyaHlBAFJiW/s400/chicken+in+progress.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634875912150708018" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Fingerling potatoes, garlic scapes, and those little onions go under the chicken. See my pretty new pot?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTO4N15feo-ogtXdP2iaw_rQhqE3yLfULriDZb00DOIvMQxOz3RAxHb9mm1ZTg4Q23r4VPAmJeRmp6RjEEMjE2afZPQrriYhp7IJzTELx9iSn_1n-nwq3XkN2jQ7p0Eo6bArWu/s400/chicken+finished.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634877431035905010" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The finished chicken - trussed with dental floss, for lack of anything else!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKLR3Q8WSK_82jJsemLC-f01AVtMenJeXAGN9xaYkqrvwuFZtSuHB0SIDLB74hYT_nukdY3HD8p9VDoNRmZbVv4azK_esE81pzEj-6dUixvq6WJwNhl8RQtE9sz71h9p7VqEF/s400/chicken+salad.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634875901876361874" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And with the leftovers - chicken salad, of course, using the green tops of the baby onions!</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-61230873177508216312011-07-18T14:24:00.012-05:002011-07-22T05:36:36.330-05:00Seattle 162, or Maybe I Do Belong In the Shtetl, After All (rough draft)Since I returned to Seattle, I've been grappling with the loss of the Kibbutz. I've been living among, and making community with large groups of Jews since high school. For the first time, I'm living in a house where people are friendly, but not interested in doing things together, and none of them are Jews. Without a synagogue, or a desire to go to the "post-college Jewish networking and fun" events put on by the local university, I find myself working on Friday nights, which I find less depressing than Shabbat by myself. When one of my extended family died last week, I said Kaddish by myself, and instead talked about her for a few minutes before eating some dates (a food I will always associate with her) with some non-Jewish friends.<br /><br />Does it sound sad? It is. It's not overwhelmingly awful, but it does hurt.<br /><br />When an acquaintance of mine posted a link to a Commentary (a well-renowned Jewish publication) article by Daniel Gordis titled "<a href="https://www.commentarymagazine.com/article/are-young-rabbis-turning-on-israel/">Are Young Rabbis Turning On Israel?</a>" I expected a political rant - which, to some extent, it is. Gordis opens with a long description of Yom HaZikaron - an Israeli version of Memorial Day that is far more about mourning than barbecues and shopping. On Yom HaZikaron, Gordis explains, air raid sirens blast twice during the day, filling the entire country with alarm. When Israelis hear the siren, they stop whatever they're doing - driving, talking, haggling, walking - and stand at attention until the siren ends. It sounds visceral, and it is. We Jews have always been good at mourning, good at remembering. I walk with ghosts, and I know it.<br /><br />Gordis, who emigrated to Israel after founding a rabbinical school in Los Angeles, contrasts this picture of Yom HaZikaron with an email sent around Boston's Hebrew Union College:<br /><br /><blockquote>“For Yom Ha-Zikaron, our kavanah [intention] is to open up our communal remembrance to include losses on all sides of the conflict in Israel/Palestine. In this spirit, our framing question for Yom Ha-Zikaron is this: On this day, what do you remember and for whom do you grieve?”<br /><br />It is the rare e-mail that leaves me speechless. Here, at a reputable institution training future rabbis who will shape a generation of American Jews and their attitudes to Israel, the parties were treated with equal weight and honor in the run-up to Yom Ha-Zikaron. What the students were essentially being asked was whether the losses on Israel’s side touched them any more deeply than the losses on the side of Israel’s enemies.</blockquote><br /><br />Gordis's flaw, as far as I'm concerned, is equating Israel with Jews. Jews are not the only citizens and inhabitants of Israel, and Israelis constitute neither the entirety, nor the pinnacle of Jewishness. Gordis would argue that I merely illustrate the problem; I have a far-too-American slant on things.<br /><br />Or, maybe, he argues, it's about formative experience.<br /><br /><blockquote>It was June 1967, and I was almost eight years old. As on almost every night at dinner, our little black-and-white television was tuned to Walter Cronkite. But on this night, my parents didn’t eat. They didn’t even sit at the table. All they did was feed us, watch TV, and pace across the kitchen as the news of the<br />Six Day War unfolded.<br /><br />“We’re not hungry,” my parents said the next evening when they did not eat once again, and I asked them why. But how could they not be hungry at dinner time? And two days in a row? My Zionist commitments have some innate root in the simple fact that with Israel seemingly on the very precipice of destruction, my parents couldn’t eat.<br />But when the students with whom I was speaking shared their formative memories of the Jewish state, the differences were profound. One said that his earliest memory was of the day that all the students in his Orthodox day school were summoned together for an assembly, and they watched as Israel and Jordan signed a peace treaty. For another, it was the intifada of the mid-1980s, and the images (again, on television) of helmeted IDF soldiers with rifles chasing young boys who’d thrown rocks.</blockquote><br /><br />My formative Israel experience, at least, as far as media goes, is the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, in 1995 - the shock, the mourning, but most particularly, the reaction of one Hebrew school teacher.<br /><br />"Watch carefully, boys and girls," she told us, sitting on the edge of her desk after explaining what happened. "He was one of the very last who really wanted peace. I'm afraid we're going to have more war. But don't worry; Israel has the best army in the world, and we continue to prove it, time and time again."<br /><br />This sentiment about Israel's military might has echoed through my childhood. When, in third grade, I learned about the Minutemen in the Revolutionary War, I also learned that the Israeli army was designed to mobilize just as quickly. When my grandfather showed me how to use my first Swiss Army knife, he told me that the Swiss and Israeli armies were among the best-disciplined and best-trained in the world.<br /><br />Is it any wonder, then, that I've grown up to sympathize with people who've been subject to this army?<br /><br />Gordis would scoff at me. "Where's your pride?" he might ask. "These are YOUR PEOPLE, and they are the BEST." I think I'd point back to his own article to answer his question.<br /><br />Gordis makes a distinction between what he calls the particular and the universal. Simply put, people who were raised particularly Jewish feel that they belong to a tribe, a different people. They identify with their tribe, practice rituals unique to it, and interact with the rest of the world through that lens. That lens includes the concept of enemies. Universalists, on the other hand, are raised to believe that Jewishness is a part of them; not that they are part of the Jews. They are raised to value the lives of every human being equally.<br /><br />Of my generation of rabbinical students, Gordis writes:<br /><br /><blockquote>The right of these rabbinical students to criticize Israel is not in question. What is lacking in their view and their approach is the sense that no matter how devoted Jews may be to humanity at large, we owe our devotion first and foremost to one particular people—our own people....what is entirely gone is an instinct of belonging—the visceral sense on the part of these students that they are part of a people, that the blood and the losses that were required to create the state of Israel is their blood and their loss....</blockquote><br /><br />Now, let's consider my upbringing for a moment. I believe I was raised straddling the line between particularist and universalist. I was raised in a mildly observant household; we were pulled out of school for the first days of Passover, lit Shabbat candles, made our own challah, received part-time Jewish educations. I have always believed that being Jewish makes me different, but not better than (okay, maybe sometimes better than) my Gentile neighbors. I proudly explain different Jewish customs and traditions to anyone who asks (and even a few who don't.) I seek out other Jews at national poetry events, and believe that something rich and filling happens when we gather for the "12 tribes reading."<br /><br />My family also believes in gay rights, are largely pro-choice, feminist, and vote mostly Democrat, but only for politicians who openly support Israel. My mother is Israeli; her family lived in Israel during its formative years (1948-1957), and a good number of our relatives remain there. When I think of the Israeli army, I can't help but think of my cousins, aunts and uncles. Of course I want them to live. Of course I want them to succeed.<br /><br />But I, too, was raised to value all lives. Maybe it's the influence of growing up around Unitarian Universalists. Maybe my childhood synagogue just wasn't particular enough. Maybe it's my fancy-liberal-college indoctrination. Who knows?<br /><br />Here's what I do know: here, in Seattle, I miss the easy presence of Jews. I even miss fighting about this exact issue with an old particular housemate of mine. Can I be a universalist and still feel lost and lonely without this community? Can I value all lives equally and still feel like a part of the Jewish people, instead of a person who happens to have Jewishness (like she happens to have brown hair, or a Socialist bent?)<br /><br />I suspect Gordis would say no. What do you think?Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-71363591465806192352011-07-16T21:44:00.004-05:002011-07-16T23:56:54.653-05:00Portland 1, or When We Were HappyIn the year I turned 25, I took my first-ever non-family-or-work-related vacation. Secret Agent Lover Man and I have descended on our fair sister to the south: Portland. (Not that one, family - the West Coast Portland.)<div><br /></div><div>Portland seems determined to charm us, from the markets to the food carts to the four-story City of Books. Let me also mention here: the free hotel breakfast, that included bacon-braised greens. The homemade gnocchi from the collection of food carts, dressed simply with fresh tomato and basil. The carnival foods, glistening, crispy and so many shades of brown. I feel full - stuffed on books and food and the ever-delightful company of SALM.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow: food pictures, I promise. Today: just two pictures of the market's bounty.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIHAzxhO2G0kedZWEe8q2xSWQ9FTKIbpMiEPRff0d9xp-O4T-9xT4Rt_pPQ6ex5ibvkF85KIxabHnRAOjOQ5LuN_Fy80hmQylhCoiCjG-aaFNMSwXUe9ZK_DdEuK9nrxwYQuLF/s400/DSCF0820.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630148655567490146" /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTNCqD7bibrAgtdODF5TwDP2UFcZqROpdETlkxk7d_3xBUX3NnneHpPrF5fMT15Ouk_43_jQlvgEc1tFipFctpL-ez_iuv6TYBGzEOB_ZI_dgOLpJRzS4GrvV4b-OMKPnpPFA/s400/DSCF0814.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630148659727826306" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-69500746403445184532011-06-27T16:08:00.002-05:002011-06-27T16:14:17.743-05:00Seattle 161, or Nesting Bird 2<div style="text-align: left;">I happen to have some incredibly talented friends. Having their creativity around (in the form of books, photos, paintings, etc) is encouraging, nourishing, and sometimes downright cheerful. Check out my wall of Abby, the brilliant card designer. Here you see (from left to right):</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A. A valentine's day card with a lemon on it that says "my main squeeze."</div><div style="text-align: left;">B. A belated birthday card of a giant nose that says "hope your birthday didn't blow!"</div><div style="text-align: left;">C. A card she sent me after my last knee surgery with some cheery nectarines.</div><div style="text-align: left;">D. A Rosh Hashanna card with two little blue shofarot on them.</div><div style="text-align: left;">E. A card she did not make, but picked perfectly for my birthday last year that says "I'm writing you a poem for your birthday. / What rhymes with 'huge penis?'"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6tjeY6WcIxuVfhRuR6W5e-r7NV61rWKc3rkQrphIv1Fm9Mt-DgsvWaBAJ0VRXidqe7hFV0c6My6bHptB7VxvcK2fwlUmrQ85qQHriz3-EJfJM2qtYmoxJWlWRm6f_iZK6Cad/s1600/abby+wal.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb6tjeY6WcIxuVfhRuR6W5e-r7NV61rWKc3rkQrphIv1Fm9Mt-DgsvWaBAJ0VRXidqe7hFV0c6My6bHptB7VxvcK2fwlUmrQ85qQHriz3-EJfJM2qtYmoxJWlWRm6f_iZK6Cad/s400/abby+wal.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623009678510601730" /></a></div><br /><div>These aren't the only ones - her "Tofu: the other White Meat" card sits above my desk, and this year's birthday card is sitting with the others, on my bookshelf, where they'll slowly retire to the walls.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having Abby's work around makes me feel incredibly loved. She's a piece of my home.</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-15933005944762548292011-06-24T16:01:00.003-05:002011-06-24T16:31:13.544-05:00Seattle 160, or Interpretations of FoodSince I'm apparently better at expressing my feelings through food than by talking about them, I decided to write a Guide To Dane's Mood And General Mental Health. This guide <i>only</i> <i>applies to food I make for myself; </i>food I make for others is very different. Note: these are all things I eat on a fairly regular basis.<div><br /></div><div>Meal X: <i>Whole Foods Salad Bar - a variety of things, but invariably too much Cesar dressing and parmesan cheese</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>This doesn't even count on the scale. I can't face my kitchen, or I don't have a kitchen. I am one step away from plunging my head into these all-too-cheery plastic green bowls and letting my sobs echo across the Jamba Juice stand and the gelato bar.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend: pretend you don't know me.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Meal A: <i>kosher dill pickles (3), two spoonfuls of peanut butter, one fistful dried fruit, the remainders of any dessert-like items in my kitchen, a hunk of cheese</i></div><div><br /></div><div>This meal has three possible interpretations:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) I am in a hypoglycemic fit and will pass out if sugar is not consumed IMMEDIATELY. See: post workout, having walked a mile uphill from work, having just worked an overnight shift and completely forgotten what time/day/season it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>2) Ooh, I should probably check to see if I need to buy tampons.</div><div><br /></div><div>3) I am so depressed I shouldn't handle anything sharp, like a butter knife, or the edge of a frying pan.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend you: flee the premises, dimwit. Can't you see? You're next on my list.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Meal B: <i>boxed macaroni and cheese (hippie version) with smoked paprika and other spices, plus extra cheese of various kinds</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Again, several interpretations:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) The darkest days have passed, and I can consider cooking again. Probably still best to avoid knives.</div><div><br /></div><div>2) Final exams, or something similarly deadline-locked, and comfort food is necessary to avoid complete panic.</div><div><br /></div><div>3) My arteries were feeling a little too clear today.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend: you nod and cluck sympathetically, and ask for a bite so I can later tell myself I didn't eat the <i>entire</i> box.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meal C: <i>sauteed collard greens with hot pepper with a sizable chunk of smoked salmon</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Life is getting way better - considering that this dish requires a half-stocked pantry, foresight to buy smoked salmon at the farmer's market, and the use of knives. Mood: considerably cheery. Minus points if eaten wrapped in a tortilla, though.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend: telling me it smells good. This will reinforce my memories of competence and happiness, which I know are now within reach.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meal D: <i>happy meat (grass -fed, local, organic yadda yadda yadda) hamburgers, spiced with garlic, coriander and chilies, topped with caramelized onions and happy meat bacon, side of sauteed chard, slices of raw tomato, on an organic wheat bun.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Clearly, Secret Agent Lover Man is over for dinner. Guests! Life is not half bad. Add points for getting meat from independent rancher at the farmer's market; minus a few if I just snuck over to Whole Foods and got their happy meat. Consider photographing the bacon; this just may be something worth an ounce of pride.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend: pulling up a chair. Chances are, there's enough for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meal E:<i> sustainably-harvested tunafish salad with chopped peppers, scallions, fresh herbs, a pickle, plenty of mustard, curry-related spices and a dab of mayonnaise, served with a slice of whole-grain toast</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I've been watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution at work again, and feeling simultaneously inspired to completely change my eating habits and guilty about my boxed mac-and-cheese consumption. Also, the food we serve at work. And what my friends eat when I'm not cooking for them. Damnit! Why can't they all eat like this?* What is <i>wrong with my generation?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>If you see me eating this, I recommend: hightailing it before you get sucked into my rant about institutional food systems and how processed food contributes to the myriad of mental health issues for which my clients are/aren't being treated. I may also chase you with a forkful for you to try.</div><div><br /></div><div>*(At least half of them eat better than me. It's just a figure of speech)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well? What does your cooking tell us about you?</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-71021759725579981412011-06-11T13:27:00.002-05:002011-06-11T13:39:03.090-05:00Seattle 159, or Nesting BirdI've moved into my new house, and things are Okay. Not perfect, not hugely exciting, but Okay. I spent last night unloading a box of books, which is always an emotional experience. It also brings up questions about how I want to organize my books: do my comfort books go on the easily-reached shelf? Do I take the plunge and go alphabetical? What about arranging them in a rainbow by spine color? <div><br /></div><div>One things was certain right away: my new little bookshelf isn't going to hold even half of what I've got. It's possibly time for a run to the dreaded Swedish shop, or some aggressive Craigslisting. In the meantime, here are my shelves:</div><div><br /></div><div> - Lesbian/Feminist comfort books (includes books by Leslea Newman, all of Alison Bechdel, and Eve Ensler)</div><div> - Young Adult comfort books (includes Bat 6, Speak, No Castles Here, Mixed Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweller and all of Joan Bauer...</div><div> - Important Books That I Never Read (includes prayerbooks....and that's it.)</div><div> - Significant Books That I Never Read (includes books with long, loving notes from the authors or gift-givers, and other peoples' treasured books)</div><div> - Books For When Small Children Come Over (Includes A Fly Went By, Walk When The Moon Is Full, Rise Up Singing and others)</div><div><br /></div><div>Soon to come: Poetry, poetry, poetry. Also Old Haggadot, Cookbooks With Pretty Pictures, Cookbooks That Are Important For Unknown Reasons, and Old Notebooks That Deserve To Live Somewhere Other Than Under The Bed.</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-8267889044438429862011-06-03T10:18:00.002-05:002011-06-03T10:40:03.916-05:00Seattle 158, or Freezer Aisle ConundrumsThe hardest part about being back in Seattle is not having the kibbutz. Granted, the Happy Hippie Co-Op Down The Road fills some of the void, but I miss having a central gathering place for the people in my circle. I'm about to move into a house where the housemates don't typically talk to one another. Many things about the house are just right (price, location, gas stove), so I'm telling myself this is a good experiment in a different kind of living. But I miss the community. I've never had anything amputated, but I imagine this is a fraction of what it feels like - constantly reaching for something that isn't there.<div><br /></div><div>So when Muppet* called from the Happy Hippie Co-Op Down the Road to tell me he'd just lost a dear friend back East to a drunk driver, and he might be in need of some company, I was so grateful. Here was a call to be part of someone's community when they needed it most. I promised him I'd be there with all proper Shiva call accoutrements - Entenmann's coffee cake, and a willingness to stay for hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>I headed to the grocery store, strode purposefully towards the bakery, and was completely stunned to find no Entenmann's. No coffee cake at all, actually. They had something called "two-bite cinnamon rolls" that looked like rugelach, but other than that, bupkiss. I turned heel and walked to the aisle with the Hostess and Sara Lee confections, but was was thwarted there, too, despite some kosher squashed-looking cinnamon rolls. I asked a store clerk where the Entenmann's were, but she'd never heard of the brand.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this particular grocery store, which features the largest kosher section in town, there is one employee who seems to have been hired specifically to deal with the Jews. He wears a kipa and tzitzit, and can often be seen struggling to keep up with women barking orders at him in rapid-figure Hebrew right around Passover. I saw him walking by with a giant box of Israeli candy and flagged him down.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes?" he said, all business and busyness.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I need some help," I began. Then, for some reason, my voice cracked. "What do you bring to a shiva call if there's no Entenmann's coffee cake?"</div><div><br /></div><div>His face softened, but he didn't ask questions. "We have bapka," he said, putting the box down and leading the way. Bapka! Of course! That was even more perfect than coffee cake! I happily trotted after him - all the way to the freezer aisle.</div><div><br /></div><div>He and I stared at the shelf of cinnamon and chocolate cake through the freezer door. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do I bake it?" I asked uncertainly. </div><div><br /></div><div>He answered, just as uncertainly, "I think you just leave it on the counter for eight or nine hours." He then strode back towards his box of candy, calling a gentle "good luck" over his shoulder.</div><div><br /></div><div>I whipped out my phone. My mother would certainly know the answer, but was wasn't picking up her cell phone. My father, too, was likewise unreachable, but I sent him a text - "What do you bring to a goyishe shiva call if there's no coffee cake??" I called my grandparents next, but they only suggested I try something other than frozen bapka. I wandered around the freezer section for twenty minutes, phone to my ear, demanding of four different people what to do!</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, it's silly. But I somehow wanted, as we all do, to bring the perfect thing, the one thing that could make my grieving friend smile. I had my heart so set on something that would remind me of my own culture and family that I completely lost sight of his. When my father called back to suggest "anything my friend would eat, or anything his guests could help themselves too," I knew I had my answer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The pound cake and bowl of fruit salad went perfectly with the giant pot of vegetable stew and cornbread that was being served at the Happy Hippy Co-Op Down The Road for dinner. Secret Agent Lover Man and I settled in for a long evening with Muppet, hearing stories about his friend, talking about love, reading books, and admiring shiny new gizmos and gadgets. I found out that Muppet's father had once been an Entenmann's traveling salesman, but he thanked me for the pound cake all the same.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Just as long as it wasn't angel food cake," said SALM as we walked home. "That would've been kind of tacky."</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-55111803630242728842011-05-25T19:22:00.000-05:002011-05-25T19:23:01.239-05:00Seattle 157, or The Homeless Shelter PianoOne of the shelters I work at is called Chrysalis* . It houses a dozen young people from 18-21 years old. They are allowed to stay up to six months before finding other housing. It is the only shelter around that allows its residents to have drug problems; in the other shelters, people are kicked out for using drugs. Chrysalis philosophy argues that living on the streets is no way to kick a drug habit; one must first feel safe and stable before attempting something that hard.<br /><br />In the corner of the Chrysalis dining room sits a bedraggled piano. It is an older upright, high as my shoulder, with no brand name in sight. Half the keys stick. It is so far out of tune it's nearly painful. Someone, years ago, took a permanent marker and wrote the names of each note on the keys, so it looks like a mouth full of alphabet. On top sits a giant houseplant and piles of forgotten papers. <br /><br />But two days ago, on the evening shift, I heard someone playing. The music rolled, taking familiar tunes and spilling them into syncopated riffs. I heard the theme from "Fur Elise" turned into a river of jazz. Remembering how much it embarrassed me when my mother acknowledged my playing when I was young, I listened from behind the office door for maybe twenty minutes before sticking my head out. They player was one of the residents, often sent to his room for being intoxicated. He played with his eyes closed, occasionally squinting one open to examine a chord. <br /><br />"That sounds beautiful," I called during a lull. He opened his eyes and spoke slowly.<br /><br />"Yeah? You think so?"<br /><br />"I know so," I said. "I really love hearing you play. Where'd you learn?"<br /><br />He shrugged. "Taught myself. Played drums for awhile, learned how to read drum music, but everything else is just me."<br /><br />I was stunned. I played piano for eleven years and took college-level music theory. The kid had talent - he had an innate sense for putting sounds together that made musical sense. I could hear the rudiments of composition in his work. Plus, it sounded damn good.<br /><br />"You don't know how to read music?"<br /><br />"No. Wanted to learn though."<br /><br />"I'll teach you," I said immediately. His face brightened. "Really?"<br /><br />"Yeah. Right now. You have time?"<br /><br />"Hell yeah!"<br /><br />I printed out a simple piece of music, and a sheet of staff paper from the internet. I labeled each note and asked him to label each note in the piece I'd given him. We completed one line together, and then I asked him to play it. Having the names of the notes written on the keys helped. He asked me how I learned to play without looking at my hands; I told him of an old piano teacher who used to keep a finger under my chin so I couldn't look down.<br /><br />I figured if he was serious about learning, he might be willing to do some work on his own.<br /><br />"Finish the rest of the piece," I told him. "I'll be back again in two days; show me what you've finished by then."<br /><br />This morning, I walked in and he was waiting for me, homework in hand. "I looked up some stuff on the internet about chords," he said. "Can you show me how to do that?"<br /><br />I looked at the piece of paper he'd painstakingly copied down. It was a list of formulas - major chords, minor chords, diminished, augmented, and sustained. I'd forgotten half these terms, but they came back quickly.<br /><br />"Sure," I said. "Let's begin with the major scale." I gave him the formula for figuring out any major scale - whole-whole-half-whole-whole-whole-half. He followed my lead - A major, F major, B-flat major. It didn't take him more than a few tries to figure out each one. Once he'd done that, we worked on building chords. I was exhilarated. <br /><br />But he was frustrated. "Look at this," he complained. He'd tried to play a scale, and four of the seven keys had stuck. "How am I supposed to play if they keep sticking?" <br /><br />I didn't have an answer, but it was time for our lesson to end anyway. I told him to keep practicing, and working on the piece we'd done the first week. Once he was gone, I slipped into the office and started searching the internet for piano tuners in Seattle. I called the very first one I found, told her the story, and she said she just happened to have a free appointment the following morning and she'd be glad to come donate some of her skills and time to help us out.<br /><br />"I can't promise I'll fix everything," she warned, "but I should be able to leave it in better shape than I found it."<br /><br />I won't be there tomorrow when she arrives, but I can't wait for our next lesson - or to see his face when he sits down and realizes someone fixed the piano. <br /><br />This kind of stuff doesn't just make my day - it makes my year. It is why I do this.Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-44853103758395648712011-04-29T13:49:00.002-05:002011-04-29T13:54:14.476-05:00New Jersey 2, or Almost GoneLast night, I had the very last show of the Wandering Jew Tour. It was at the Tenafly public library, amid a crowd that included: an aunt, two family friends, three of my middle and high school teachers, some folks from the senior center where my grandparents play bridge, and a few library patrons. It was as perfect an end as I could've asked for. They beamed at me, this patchwork community that represented many parts of my life. About halfway through, I realized my aunt was right: I do need to write a poem to my teachers. I realized I was performing almost solely to them, these three women, all of whom believed in me so much - even when I was a sixth grader who hated biology, or a cocky senior spouting European history. It felt right to come back to them, to say "Hey, remember me? Look what I can do now!" <div><br /></div><div>The bag is nearly packed. I can't find one of my socks. Tonight, I won't be going home. There is no home. I'll spend the next month couch-surfing in Seattle and trying to find just the right spot to begin the next chapter.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there will be Secret Agent Lover Man, and his smile, and his one good arm, and for tonight, that's more than enough.</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-29778942919791854932011-04-27T19:08:00.002-05:002011-04-27T19:40:42.282-05:00New Jersey 1, or The Important ThingsSkiing. I say it now, and I know so many of my friends think: wealth. Richies. New Yorkers who come up to Vermont and New Hampshire and Quebec in their flashy outfits and latest gadgets and pay exorbitant prices to be shuttled up and down the mountains. Mountains which have been bulldozed and carved into a giant group of trails; the perfect playground for the class that doesn't care.<div><br /></div><div>This is not what skiing means to my grandfather, and by proxy, to anyone in my family. When I was five, six, seven years old, I whined my way through the process of buckling and strapping myself into kiddie-sized ski boots while the adults around me said <i>Remember when Paps had to lace us all into our boots because nobody was strong enough to pull those things tight?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>When Paps learned to ski, his mother taught him how to strap his skis to his back before starting the hike up the mountain they'd later ski down. Wooden things, now museum pieces, or ski lodge decorations, they boggle the mind. How in the world did one manage - no real bindings, no technical advances, <i>no trails?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Somehow they did - they spent half the day hiking up the mountain, and the other half skiing down it, stopping for lunch and snacks, and what would later be known in my family as CITP - Chocolate In The Pocket. It imbued my grandfather with a love and respect for mountains that would lead him to teach his wife, children, children's husbands, and grandchildren how to ski, how to carve their own paths.</div><div><br /></div><div>He stopped skiing about a decade ago, shortly after his senior citizen's entitlement to free skiing took effect, but my memories of him on the mountain are clear: tanned, windblown, and whistling. Often, as he passed me on our way down the slope, I could catch snippets of songs from other countries. My mother says it's a good way to keep your breathing regular, and she too, whistles her way down. I've picked up the habit myself, though I'm more inclined to sing.</div><div><br /></div><div>So it's no surprise to me when, at dinner, having just announced that my book will not, in fact, be published by Six Gallery Press, because I am voluntarily ending the process before any more unprofessional behavior, stalling and heartache can occur, I am thinking of the most important things in my life. My grandfather is using this opportunity to grill me about the rest of my life plans, and I am starting to wash the dishes in an attempt to distract myself from the embarrassment.</div><div><br /></div><div>He wants to know if writing is really something I can make a career of. He doesn't ask it like that, but I sense that's the heart of things. What can be learned from this experience with my awful publisher? How can I begin to see things for what they are instead of what I want them to be? <i>Do I just want to believe I can make a living being a writer, or am I only seeing what I want to be instead of what I can be?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And I hear you asking: <i>what the hell does any of this have to do with skiing?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I ask him a question that I ask myself occasionally. <i>If the rest of the world disappeared, and no one was left watching, what would you still do?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>When I ask myself this question, I always get two firm answers: writing, and a little bit of singing. I wouldn't cook the way I do for other people. I wouldn't make interesting clothes for myself, or do push-ups or go hiking. </div><div><br /></div><div>For Paps, I have to make some allowances. <i>Okay, so let's assume you're forty years younger and you can still do everything you've ever loved to do - hike, travel, ski, listen to music, make music, whatever.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>He thinks about it and says he thinks - <i>if really nothing were left but the snowy mountains, Dandoo, I'd probably go skiing.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I nod as I keep doing the dishes. I'm so distracted that I start scrubbing the cast iron pan with a soapy sponge.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mammy announces: <i>I already lost everything once. And all I did was keep trying to live.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It's a fair point; neither Paps nor I has ever had to actually contend with my scenario of "nobody watching." Mammy's come closer than either of us.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>And?</i> I ask her.<i> What kept you going? What made you want to stay alive?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I was too young to die</i>, she shrugs. <i>And I loved my husband</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think about that for a minute, and then turn again towards Paps. <i>Here's the thing: writing isn't a hobby. It can't be a hobby, it'd take up too much time. It's just what I do. And if I have to spend the rest of my life cobbling together jobs and figuring out how to make it work, then that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>He considers this, then offers.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>But, Dandoo? If everyone disappeared, I'd probably go skiing. But I don't think I would whistle.</i></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-91162605620564293602011-04-12T00:32:00.000-05:002011-04-12T00:33:34.168-05:00Vermont 1, or Notes from the Crappy Updater Monkey<p class="MsoNormal">Coming home – yes, home, to a place I don’t and have never lived, except here is Dad, in the car, and isn’t that home?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is Mom, showing me her sourdough starter and asking my advice, though I haven’t made a loaf in months.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here are all the pictures of me, and us, when we were young enough to ignore a camera.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And here is the small coffee shop gig full of family, people who’ve watched me grow from the sidelines of family reunions and college breakfasts and visits to the neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is the copy of my new chapbook I left for my parents, the poem with too much sex shyly torn out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here are the friends from college, together and joyous, going to see our very favorite band in a small underground venue and singing our way back to my parents’ house.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here we are, up till four when everyone’s got places to be in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here we are, singing down our bones.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is my delighted mother, my friends’ joy reflected in her morning face; how sweet these young women, come to fill her house with giggling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here is Northampton, my homeland, the place I could feel right even if everyone I loved left.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is the picnic we had, four hours on the one sunny day all week, just warm enough to sit outside and eat Hungry Ghost rosemary bread with salami and cheese and cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here are my loves, from (literally!) birth through last year, stopping by to say hello and exchange hugs, the headlines of the last few years.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here is the college, the building I hadn’t stepped foot in since my last final exam.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here are my professors in the lecture hall, and around the dinner table, talking science fiction and Shakespeare and poetry.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m showing it all to you, because this is how my Secret Agent Lover Man saw, or might’ve seen it, when he landed in Boston and joined me for a week of touring.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here is the train slowly leaving Brattleboro, and the man holding the pink-coated baby, who is waving to the train like she’s sad to see us go.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here is my whining heart, a homesick calfling who smells her meadow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Here are promises, whispered to Amherst’s brick and clapboard houses, kisses blown down the road to a future where this is really home again.</p>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-82964575559527301552011-03-26T08:49:00.002-05:002011-03-26T08:53:02.236-05:00Philadelphia 4, or Inspiration<a href="http://www.thejewishweek.com/editorial_opinion/musings/poetry_our_own">http://www.thejewishweek.com/editorial_opinion/musings/poetry_our_own</a><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.thejewishweek.com/editorial_opinion/musings/poetry_our_own"></a>A Poetry of Our Own<br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div class="field field-type-date field-field-pubdate" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 0); "><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item odd"><span class="date-display-single">Tuesday, March 22, 2011</span></div></div></div><div class="field field-type-text field-field-byline" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); padding-top: 5px; margin-top: 5px; display: inline; "><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item odd">David Wolpe</div></div></div><p style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 17px; ">For junior year abroad I studied at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. Enchanted with English poetry, I wrote a letter to my father telling of my love of Wordsworth, the romantic poets, the wonder and variety of English verse. My father, who was a devotee of literature and my first teacher, wrote back that he was glad I found inspiration and nourishment in them. But then he added something important.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 17px; ">Remember David, he said, English poetry became the poetry of the world on the backs of British soldiers. The Jewish people too had our Wordsworth and our Tennyson; they were named Ibn Gabirol, Yehuda Halevy, Bialik and Tzernichovsky. Only they had no armies; they had only their words. Don’t neglect them, he wrote, for they belong to you.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 17px; ">Sometimes we forget that the variety of Jewish culture is broader than Torah study or law or ritual alone. We are a people of artists, musicians, poets and dreamers as well. Is Yehuda Amichai’s subtle, stunning verse less a part of us than the poetry of our prayers? The words of the prophets became the conscience of the world. But our songs did not cease with the Bible, or the Rabbis, or in the Middle Ages. We continue to sing, joining Jewish voices to the sweet and sad music of humanity.</p></span></span></div></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-43625401649368924542011-03-25T22:46:00.004-05:002011-03-26T09:20:02.881-05:00Philadelphia 3, or This Is Why I Do It<div>Edit: Just got this email from one of the participants:</div><div><br /></div><div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px; ">Just wanted to thank you for sharing your vibrant work with us last evening at Big Blue Marble Bookstore here in Mt. Airy. The content, the narrative, and the style provided a most satisfying meal for the heart and mind. These monthly gatherings are exceptional and well looked forward to - always full of good energy. Thank you for adding to that energy. Thank you, as well, for your attentive appreciation during the open readings."</span></div><div><br /></div>I just had the best night of my tour so far. My reading at <a href="http://www.bigbluemarblebooks.com/">Big Blue Marble Bookstore</a> was a wild success: a room so packed with poetry lovers I had to perform while spinning in circles. Really! I performed poems in the round, trying to make sure no one had to stare at my backside for too long. And they loved it. They had never seen a performance poet before, and were so excited about my energy and style. They bought up my chapbooks, showered me with praise, and told me how I'd inspired their reading (an open mic followed my feature, which had lots of great work.)<div><br /></div><div>Nights like this can leave me flying high for a long, long time. When someone tells me that I've changed the way they see poetry - that's why I do this. Reaching people across generations, across race, class, gender, country - this is what it's all about. I will never forget this reading, this place of such generosity and spirit. Or afterwards, when so many of them came up to tell me what an impact my work made on them. Or after that, when Mo, Rachel, Aliyah and I went out for pizza and toasted the evening. Or this whole magical week in Philly, with its gracious hosts and delicious food.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow: Boston!</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-43429475924500087362011-03-24T10:07:00.003-05:002011-03-24T10:19:45.385-05:00Philadelphia 2, or ReadingsI had my second tour reading last night, with the wonderful Elliott BatTzedek, who is the best example of Why The Internet Is Awesome. Elliott and I met through mutual friends on Facebook, where she began commenting on some of my poems. We quickly realized that we were writing about a lot of the same things (Jewishness and schmolitics among them) and had a lot of valuable things to say about each others' work.<div><br /></div><div>Elliott was there when I put together my Write Bloody manuscript last year; in fact, it was she who suggested using Hillel's, Adrienne Rich's and my quotes to frame the book. She uses the same set of quotes - including mine! - in her chavurah, which is pretty cool. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, this was the first time Elliott and I met in person, in the top-floor apartment of a building that looks like a castle. See? I'm not kidding!</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70OqITZuzlAUywf_zZAMwJxzzdcGFHcCssH7pYxTQyjZD6MzwXM1t3AhdN_LaW5x4nCrRU9yZXlto79c3VxgYteaTjc8Cx28bkFEDrsd_B9N3KcMZLS7xfWn1OH9pJy_7xrod/s400/castle+philly.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 380px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587664861583092434" /><div><br /></div><div>The castle is inhabited by a trio of sweet hosts with largely Jewish names, and they were happy to host a reading of my and Elliott's work. I arrived with a fierce bout of the sniffles (I think I'm allergic to Philadelphia!), and one of them immediately began treating me with an assortment of teas and tinctures.</div><div><br /></div><div>A pot of hot, spicy soup bubbled on the stove, and people brought bread, cheese, and fruit to go with it. Elliott and I talked about midrash, and read some of our midrashic poetry to this very smart crowd of eight women, who also had their own things to say about midrash - how cool is it that Judaism's response to a changing world is to say "Well, change the tradition!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, from a literary perspective, at least. I'm still waiting for certain movements (ahem) to catch up with the whole women-as-equals thing. And maybe for some others to figure out that nationalism is not equivalent to religion, and doesn't belong in a synagogue. But, y'know, there's time for the tradition to change.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow night, I get to read at a bookstore! I love that this tour encompasses all kinds of readings - the quiet salon-style midrash reading, the rowdy slam feature, the bookstore, coffee shops, libraries - it's really amazing to get to read to all these different kinds of venues.</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-61797200770786854502011-03-21T19:25:00.002-05:002011-03-21T19:30:14.068-05:00Philadelphia 1, or ArrivalI didn't get to update from the magical internet bus, because the internet was broken. Oh well. I'm safely in Philadelphia, housed at yet another college friend's house. It's good here, joyous and colorful in Mt. Airy, just half a block from the commuter train. We've already done one of my favorite things - grocery shopping at the local co-op - and the leftover lasagna is heating up before band practice. Apparently, I get to sing along, if I so choose.Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-27568221047397694792011-03-20T14:15:00.003-05:002011-03-20T14:57:48.754-05:00The Other Washington 1, or Places Where Home Lives<div>I arrived in DC quite early, so Abby and Sarah gave me instructions to meet them at a coffee shop several blocks from the metro. I got off the train, and dutifully followed their directions, only to find myself lost after marching several blocks. A straight, white couple about my parents age passed me, and must've seen the troubled look on my face, because as soon as they passed me, I heard:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey! Kid! You lost?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite the fact that no one's called me 'kid' in years, I turned around, sized them up, decided to trust them, and said, "Yup, I'm looking for the coffee place."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh," said the man, his beard and ponytail swaying in the wind, "you're going in the wrong direction. Follow us." </div><div><br /></div><div>I kept a step or two behind them as we walked, not listening to them, until the man turned around again.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, welcome to DC! Is this your first time?" he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nope," I said cheerfully, hoping to convey a simultaneous sense of city smarts and knowledge of my whereabouts.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Funny," he answered "I could've sworn you were some nice farm girl from Minnesota, escaping to the big bad city."</div><div><br /></div><div>I laughed. "No," I said, "I'm from Seattle, and am very much a city girl these days. I'm on a book tour." </div><div><br /></div><div>"A book tour!" he cried. "What kind of book have you written?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's my first collection of poetry," I answered.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No kidding," he said, peering at me over his glasses. "What do you think of Garrison Keillor?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The question threw me a little. Garrison Keillor, for those not born in this country, or under a rock in this country, hosts a Minnesota-based NPR show called Prairie Home Companion, and is a noted storyteller and humorist. He also published a book called "Good Poems," which do, as promised, contain a bunch of good poems, but hardly anything contemporary, and most of it pretty mainstream stuff. I guessed that maybe my guide to Bethesda wasn't convinced that I was really not from Minnesota, and suspected me to be a relation of Garrison Keillor's.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well," I began, "I think he's a fabulous storyteller, but has boring taste in poetry."</div><div><br /></div><div>At this, the wife cracked up. "Ha!" she said to her husband, "Twenty-five years, and it takes a stranger on the street to keep up with you!" </div><div><br /></div><div>The husband wasn't fazed. "Oh yeah?" he asked me. "What makes you say that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I told him my thoughts, to which he replied, "Oh, you young people, no respect for your elders."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, really," I said. "That'd explain why I majored in Shakespeare and wrote my thesis on Milton in college, right? No respect for my elders?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The wife howled. The husband grinned. Then both of them stopped and indicated we'd reached the coffee shop.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Good luck on your tour," she called as I schlepped my big duffel bag up the stairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>*****</div><div><br /></div>Abby and Sarah live in a sunny fourth floor apartment with a gas stove and a comfortable-enough couch, which means I've been too content to write for a few days. We've been having dinner parties (menu: sauteed greens, brussels sprouts, couscous and sweet potatoes with apple and onion chutney), shopping for a make-your-own sushi party we're hosting this afternoon, and celebrating Purim by baking Hamentaschen and going to a Purim spiel at their shul. The spiel was hilarious, and featured all the songs from "My Fair Lady" set to the Purim story, which offered an interesting take on assimilation, as well as offerings such as "Just You W<span class="Apple-style-span" >ait, Achasverosh" and "Get Me To The Feast On Time."</span><div><br /></div><div>I started writing a poem in Vashti's voice, telling the story form her point of view. It's dark. It's scary. I really like it so far.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being at Abby and Sarah's doesn't remind me of Smith, but it does remind me that there are easy places outside my own home. I fit in here. I take over the kitchen and don't feel self-conscious about leaving my toothbrush in the bathroom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Friday night, Martina and Joel came over for dinner, and today, the three of us had brunch. Martina and I spent some time beforehand at the Dupont Circle farmer's market, in a sweet replica of our near-weekly date to the farmer's market in Seattle. We sampled fresh cheese, pastries, sausage, cider, crab cakes, apples, milk and bread. And, of course, there was plenty of fresh produce to be had. Spring is almost here. I see asparagus and strawberries on the horizon,</div><div>not to mention cherry blossoms.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow, I head for Philadelphia. With any luck, I'll get to update from the magical internet bus!</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-45090150473440237712011-03-15T10:36:00.004-05:002011-03-15T16:44:06.704-05:00Pittsburgh 1, or TravelingPittsburgh was one of the more mysterious stops on my tour; I knew who I was staying with, but had never met her, and had no idea what my accommodations would be like. I was bracing myself for something to match the worst of my touring stays: a blanket rolled out on a dirty carpet in a corner of a tiny basement apartment with flood damage. I reasoned that I am still just as resilient as I was three years ago; I could take whatever was offered.<div><br /></div><div>But first, I had to get there.</div><div><br /></div><div>I arrived at the Columbus Greyhound station a full hour early for my bus, as recommended. (Note to travelers: it is never, <i>ever</i> necessary to be at the Greyhound station a full hour early. Half an hour is plenty. Always.) I was thrilled to not be getting on a plane, to not deal with the ridiculousness of airports and the hours of waiting. As I weighed my duffel bag, and the clerk printed my ticket, she said, "Oh by the way, your bus is an hour late."</div><div><br /></div><div>Great. Cool Remember all that resiliency? I've got this. A little two-hour wait for a three-hour bus ride in the Greyhound station - no problem. In fact, it'd be the perfect time to catch up on some paperwork, some budget planning, maybe edit a few poems. I set up my computer in the</div><div> corner and began to work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not too long after, the two and a half hours of sleep I'd had caught up with me, and all the numbers began to swirl on the screen. I closed the computer, and dragged myself to a bench, where who should I meet, but a few poets, headed home to Toronto! Comrades! Company! Their bus was also late, so the three of us sat talking until their bus showed up.</div><div><br /></div><div>I checked the clock; my bus was an hour and half late. I noticed the clerk who sold me my ticket making the rounds among some passengers, and I thought "Lovely. Maybe she has news." I schlepped my bags to a bench closer to her, and sat down. As soon as she got near me, I looked up hopefully and asked "Ma'am, do you know when the bus to Pittsburgh might be here?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked at me with knitted brows and a trace of exasperation. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Honey, you're going to Pittsburgh? Your bus left an hour ago. <i>On time.</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div>This didn't quite register.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But, didn't you say it'd be an hour late?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, your bus came on time."</div><div><br /></div><div>"But I could've sworn I heard you -"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ma'am, I was talking to the woman <i>behind </i>you."</div><div><br /></div><div>I got rather quiet. </div><div><br /></div><div>"So, what can I do now?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"You can wait until the next bus. It comes in four hours."</div><div><br /></div><div>And so I did. I waited. But at some point, I couldn't keep my eyes open for one more second, and curled up on the floor in the corner, stuffed my most important belongings under my jacket, lay on my backpack and took a nap. I'm not sure I've felt that as gross as I did when I woke up in a long time. I'd rather sleep on an airport floor any day.</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgBgEmuWpgmVRrZJjJzh7x5Yd7l3oX-pxy40AbP3_RHSorDcyPq0JA0Y7g5sGoSd_eDzhBzpgqayx1NKDVz1aoUGZL73UdQJA4UOf0ZYKTavvBIT9SdqER3HH1xN-U_H9rnd9/s400/Bolitadog.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584425239634108834" /><div><br /></div><div>The bus did eventually arrive, and I did get to Pittsburgh, though the bus took a fascinating route through West Virginia - I saw a compound flanked by an American flag, an Israeli flag, and a giant cross, among other things. And when I arrived, all my anxieties were soothed. My host picked me up and insisted on taking me out for dinner. Her house was lovely, spacious, clean and with a most comfortable couch for me to sleep on. The dog is one of those hyper-intelligent, knows-what-you-mean breeds that never sheds. I didn't even have to hide my stuffed animal from her; she used Sibelius the Seal as a pillow instead of a chew toy. And look at that face. Have you ever seen such an invisible pair of eyes?</div><div><br /></div><div> I cooked dinner for her and her housemate the following night. We've been laughing a lot. It's Road Magic. </div><div><br /></div><div>The concept of Road Magic is taken from the concept of Trail Magic. Trail Magic is defined by the Appalachian Trail Conservatory as "an unexpected act of kindness...a quintessential part of the Appalachian Trail experience for many long-distance hikers."</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a pretty dry explanation of something so joyful. Trail Magic is small things done by volunteers to make the lives of hikers a bit easier. Sometimes, Trail Magic means coming across a shelter that's been freshly cleaned, or had a small mirror installed on a side wall. Often it means food, hidden in bear-proof boxes, or on the shelter wall - everything from Snickers bars to platters of fresh fried chicken. Volunteers will show up at gathering points along the trail and offer to "slack-pack" a group of hikers - drive everyone's backpacks to an agreed-upon destination, leaving everyone to walk easier, with only a water bottle to carry. Trail Magic inspires trust, builds comraderie and goodwill.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've adopted the term Road Magic to mean something unexpected and joyful which inspires trust in strangers, or other humans. And Pittsburgh has been a bit of Road Magic; a small, cheerful dog, a lovely kitchen in which I can cook for my hosts, the comfort, the beauty, and the ability to relax and recover from WoWps.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next stop: Washington DC. I arrive tomorrow.</div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38372686.post-37190615475176812572011-03-11T13:10:00.001-05:002011-03-11T13:18:14.168-05:00Columbus 2, or Photos from WoWps<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEindBvZmsjFgfSsxYthEoElxhyPWmbc8GXeRf-cX3qu_t3iq7sNtgA1yS_vPi0TMqPDYE1AdYOMl_S5fZtt-ZjuiMsrfN7tlB3OOGIA618MZQs6sAV5TWfuuNJzxAZK0SZ5tWNf/s1600/Wowps+2011+1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 321px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEindBvZmsjFgfSsxYthEoElxhyPWmbc8GXeRf-cX3qu_t3iq7sNtgA1yS_vPi0TMqPDYE1AdYOMl_S5fZtt-ZjuiMsrfN7tlB3OOGIA618MZQs6sAV5TWfuuNJzxAZK0SZ5tWNf/s400/Wowps+2011+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582888241484817858" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEindBvZmsjFgfSsxYthEoElxhyPWmbc8GXeRf-cX3qu_t3iq7sNtgA1yS_vPi0TMqPDYE1AdYOMl_S5fZtt-ZjuiMsrfN7tlB3OOGIA618MZQs6sAV5TWfuuNJzxAZK0SZ5tWNf/s1600/Wowps+2011+1.jpg"></a>Family Reunion<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjs3wVgphL3FqMWkGCf8Q9aC9Rw4Q9zP1ocFNIzwm4ATn3Y2oOh4tnt6Vh1oJJv-R6zhXAEUFrrxbqGXvI7B9ANX6lgEtHOrOfG4tvlQtiqcIWHHuWWyeP0ky-lnp4h1p-h2z/s1600/Dane+and+Billy+Wowps+2011.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 321px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjs3wVgphL3FqMWkGCf8Q9aC9Rw4Q9zP1ocFNIzwm4ATn3Y2oOh4tnt6Vh1oJJv-R6zhXAEUFrrxbqGXvI7B9ANX6lgEtHOrOfG4tvlQtiqcIWHHuWWyeP0ky-lnp4h1p-h2z/s400/Dane+and+Billy+Wowps+2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582886619910233858" /></a><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjs3wVgphL3FqMWkGCf8Q9aC9Rw4Q9zP1ocFNIzwm4ATn3Y2oOh4tnt6Vh1oJJv-R6zhXAEUFrrxbqGXvI7B9ANX6lgEtHOrOfG4tvlQtiqcIWHHuWWyeP0ky-lnp4h1p-h2z/s1600/Dane+and+Billy+Wowps+2011.jpg"></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Danehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12601596473865988829noreply@blogger.com1