I'm a Stranger Here Myself

Seattle 169, or After Coming Home

2012-01-15T03:40:00.000-05:00

On the walk home,
Seattle’s first snow drools
from the Craftsman roofs.
Their shingles sag
from so many winters
spent crying.

Seattle air tastes
like silt and silicon,
like city tap water.

I miss Boston. It too, is a city,
but of more bricks than concrete.
Its wind stabs the throat like icicles,
sharp enough to cut tongues,
to cherry your hollowed lips,
entice you to keep drinking.

Seattle 168, TDR

2011-11-13T13:06:00.003-05:00

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.

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.

Trans Day of Remembrance

Let their names be counted.
Let them be remembered, let their stories
hang like myth and legend over our hearts.
Let’s pool the flames of each candlelight vigil,
and invite their ghosts to the bonfire.

Let this remind the world that we are here,
and we are watching, and when we lose family,
we throw them the kind of funeral that can’t
be swept into a closet. Let’s make public altars,
throw them concerts, write obituaries,
ink their names in our most naked places.
These are the duties of survivors.

But let it be more
than solemn recitation;
let it be revival.
Let banjo parties and casserole dinners
be born from their ashes.
Let's reach for the ones we fought with,
put seeds in one another's hands,
and hold tight. Let's coax joy from November skies
and dance like we’re headstone sober
but oh, so alive. Alive to speak
and cry and scream and scrape our knees

and go home together. Leave the park
for the kitchen, leave the graveyard
for the bar, grab your violins
and your drumsticks,
toss a toast to every
weary smile to
their lives, our lives.
To the ones who are still here –
let’s make it count.

Seattle 167, or Revisions and Rosh Hashanah

2011-09-28T15:47:00.004-05:00

My brilliant editor 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.

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.

And that's totally what happened. You believe me, right?

Here's some of the 15-page critique (for 25 pages of poems):

...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...

Well, if that doesn't just pop my balloons, Editor.

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.

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.

But this critique rings true for me in so many ways; I can't just let go of it.

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.

Sound like anything else I've been working on?

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.

In the meantime, Shana Tovah, a Gut Yor, and may you all have sweet, contemplative New Years!

Seattle 166, or poem

2011-09-21T12:50:00.003-05:00

Most 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 very favorite poets. 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.

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.

When you see

your sweet young feet

come out

from under the covers

like a pair of prairie dogs,

don't be afraid.

I promise,

you will not Medusa them back

into cicada husks.

I traded eight years

and my name

for this,

so,

these are your feet.

Your skin has returned

from Lizard Land,

your are your husband's

doe-eyed teacher again,

the one from which

he learned everything about love.

The bed will be too soft, now.

Rise in one motion,

gazelle yourself out the door.

The lake is there,

and a sparrow is calling you Grandma

and you don't know why.

You don't answer,

because the lake is made of goulash,

and you are hungry

for the first time

since you realized

you would never be perfect.

When you are full,

a choir of strangers

who call you Mom

will come with their

soup bowls and sing all the water

back into your flesh.

You will be so pink again,

baby-tongue pink.

There is no loneliness.

You trade your afternoon television

to an owl

for passage up a snowy mountain.

He leaves you at the top,

where a mariachi band

blesses you over and over

with roses.

You will hear his voice, then,

on another mountaintop,

and know,

from the first step,

that you can walk there.

Seattle 165, or Dive

2011-09-03T02:10:00.002-05:00

Guess 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.

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.

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.

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."

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!).

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.

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.

I'm writing a book! It sneaks up on me every so often, like really good news. I'm writing a book!

Seattle 164, or Fiction

2011-08-13T22:17:00.003-05:00

(Sometimes, the Fiction Monster takes little bites out of my heels until I figure out something to do with her.)

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,

“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.”

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.

“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,

“So, why me?”

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.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really, I just wanted to pick your brain about some things, see if I could find some answers.”

“7,” says G-d.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were looking for answers. 3+4, days of the week, last digit of Pi…”

“Really? Pi has a last digit?”

“Yes, but don’t tell the mathematicians. They’d lose faith, and that’s way more fun than answers.”

“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.”

“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?”

“At least I didn’t ask you to end any wars,” I shoot back.

“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.”

“Medical research?”

“Absolutely. Doesn’t it make sense, to pair up the things that try to control mortality?”

“Fair enough. Can I have a bite of your veal?”

“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.”

“I will, but I doubt that’ll make her feel any better.”

“Right,” says G-d, floating towards the door. “Right.”

Paradox 1, or Family

2011-08-08T21:22:00.001-05:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

Today, there is enough rain to justify a trip into town - to the farmer's market, the library, maybe the pottery shed.

Always, always, there's promises whispering - you will come back here. This is where you belong, girl, in our sticky heat and snowstorms. You're welcome.

Seattle 163, or Food

2011-07-29T15:26:00.006-05:00

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.

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."

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).

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.

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.

And this, my darlings, is what happened to all of it:

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.

Fingerling potatoes, garlic scapes, and those little onions go under the chicken. See my pretty new pot?

The finished chicken - trussed with dental floss, for lack of anything else!

And with the leftovers - chicken salad, of course, using the green tops of the baby onions!

Seattle 162, or Maybe I Do Belong In the Shtetl, After All (rough draft)

2011-07-18T14:24:00.012-05:00

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.

Does it sound sad? It is. It's not overwhelmingly awful, but it does hurt.

When an acquaintance of mine posted a link to a Commentary (a well-renowned Jewish publication) article by Daniel Gordis titled "Are Young Rabbis Turning On Israel?" 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.

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:

“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?”

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.

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.

Or, maybe, he argues, it's about formative experience.

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
Six Day War unfolded.

“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.
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.

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.

"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."

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.

Is it any wonder, then, that I've grown up to sympathize with people who've been subject to this army?

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.

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.

Of my generation of rabbinical students, Gordis writes:

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....

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."

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.

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?

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?)

I suspect Gordis would say no. What do you think?

Portland 1, or When We Were Happy

2011-07-16T21:44:00.004-05:00

In 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.)

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.

Tomorrow: food pictures, I promise. Today: just two pictures of the market's bounty.

Seattle 161, or Nesting Bird 2

2011-06-27T16:08:00.002-05:00

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):

A. A valentine's day card with a lemon on it that says "my main squeeze."

B. A belated birthday card of a giant nose that says "hope your birthday didn't blow!"

C. A card she sent me after my last knee surgery with some cheery nectarines.

D. A Rosh Hashanna card with two little blue shofarot on them.

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?'"

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.

Having Abby's work around makes me feel incredibly loved. She's a piece of my home.

Seattle 160, or Interpretations of Food

2011-06-24T16:01:00.003-05:00

Since 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 only applies to food I make for myself; food I make for others is very different. Note: these are all things I eat on a fairly regular basis.

Meal X: Whole Foods Salad Bar - a variety of things, but invariably too much Cesar dressing and parmesan cheese

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.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: pretend you don't know me.

Meal A: 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

This meal has three possible interpretations:

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.

2) Ooh, I should probably check to see if I need to buy tampons.

3) I am so depressed I shouldn't handle anything sharp, like a butter knife, or the edge of a frying pan.

If you see me eating this, I recommend you: flee the premises, dimwit. Can't you see? You're next on my list.

Meal B: boxed macaroni and cheese (hippie version) with smoked paprika and other spices, plus extra cheese of various kinds

Again, several interpretations:

1) The darkest days have passed, and I can consider cooking again. Probably still best to avoid knives.

2) Final exams, or something similarly deadline-locked, and comfort food is necessary to avoid complete panic.

3) My arteries were feeling a little too clear today.

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 entire box.

Meal C: sauteed collard greens with hot pepper with a sizable chunk of smoked salmon

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.

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.

Meal D: 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.

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.

If you see me eating this, I recommend: pulling up a chair. Chances are, there's enough for you.

Meal E: 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'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 wrong with my generation?

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.

*(At least half of them eat better than me. It's just a figure of speech)

Well? What does your cooking tell us about you?

Seattle 159, or Nesting Bird

2011-06-11T13:27:00.002-05:00

I'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?

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:

- Lesbian/Feminist comfort books (includes books by Leslea Newman, all of Alison Bechdel, and Eve Ensler)

- Young Adult comfort books (includes Bat 6, Speak, No Castles Here, Mixed Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweller and all of Joan Bauer...

- Important Books That I Never Read (includes prayerbooks....and that's it.)

- Significant Books That I Never Read (includes books with long, loving notes from the authors or gift-givers, and other peoples' treasured books)

- Books For When Small Children Come Over (Includes A Fly Went By, Walk When The Moon Is Full, Rise Up Singing and others)

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.

Seattle 158, or Freezer Aisle Conundrums

2011-06-03T10:18:00.002-05:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

"Yes?" he said, all business and busyness.

"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?"

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.

He and I stared at the shelf of cinnamon and chocolate cake through the freezer door.

"Do I bake it?" I asked uncertainly.

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.

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!

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.

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.

"Just as long as it wasn't angel food cake," said SALM as we walked home. "That would've been kind of tacky."

Seattle 157, or The Homeless Shelter Piano

2011-05-25T19:22:00.000-05:00

One 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.

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.

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.

"That sounds beautiful," I called during a lull. He opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

"Yeah? You think so?"

"I know so," I said. "I really love hearing you play. Where'd you learn?"

He shrugged. "Taught myself. Played drums for awhile, learned how to read drum music, but everything else is just me."

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.

"You don't know how to read music?"

"No. Wanted to learn though."

"I'll teach you," I said immediately. His face brightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. Right now. You have time?"

"Hell yeah!"

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.

I figured if he was serious about learning, he might be willing to do some work on his own.

"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."

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?"

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.

"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.

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?"

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.

"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."

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.

This kind of stuff doesn't just make my day - it makes my year. It is why I do this.

New Jersey 2, or Almost Gone

2011-04-29T13:49:00.002-05:00

Last 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!"

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.

But there will be Secret Agent Lover Man, and his smile, and his one good arm, and for tonight, that's more than enough.

New Jersey 1, or The Important Things

2011-04-27T19:08:00.002-05:00

Skiing. 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.

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 Remember when Paps had to lace us all into our boots because nobody was strong enough to pull those things tight?

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, no trails?

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.

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.

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.

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? 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?

And I hear you asking: what the hell does any of this have to do with skiing?

I ask him a question that I ask myself occasionally. If the rest of the world disappeared, and no one was left watching, what would you still do?

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.

For Paps, I have to make some allowances. 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.

He thinks about it and says he thinks - if really nothing were left but the snowy mountains, Dandoo, I'd probably go skiing.

I nod as I keep doing the dishes. I'm so distracted that I start scrubbing the cast iron pan with a soapy sponge.

Mammy announces: I already lost everything once. And all I did was keep trying to live.

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.

And? I ask her. What kept you going? What made you want to stay alive?

I was too young to die, she shrugs. And I loved my husband.

I think about that for a minute, and then turn again towards Paps. 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.

He considers this, then offers.

But, Dandoo? If everyone disappeared, I'd probably go skiing. But I don't think I would whistle.

Vermont 1, or Notes from the Crappy Updater Monkey

2011-04-12T00:32:00.000-05:00

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? Here is Mom, showing me her sourdough starter and asking my advice, though I haven’t made a loaf in months. Here are all the pictures of me, and us, when we were young enough to ignore a camera.

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. Here is the copy of my new chapbook I left for my parents, the poem with too much sex shyly torn out.

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. Here we are, up till four when everyone’s got places to be in the morning. Here we are, singing down our bones. 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.

Here is Northampton, my homeland, the place I could feel right even if everyone I loved left. 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. 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.

Here is the college, the building I hadn’t stepped foot in since my last final exam. Here are my professors in the lecture hall, and around the dinner table, talking science fiction and Shakespeare and poetry.

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.

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. Here is my whining heart, a homesick calfling who smells her meadow. 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.

Philadelphia 4, or Inspiration

2011-03-26T08:49:00.002-05:00

http://www.thejewishweek.com/editorial_opinion/musings/poetry_our_own

A Poetry of Our Own

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

David Wolpe

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.

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.

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.

Philadelphia 3, or This Is Why I Do It

2011-03-25T22:46:00.004-05:00

Edit: Just got this email from one of the participants:

"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."

I just had the best night of my tour so far. My reading at Big Blue Marble Bookstore 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.)

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.

Tomorrow: Boston!

Philadelphia 2, or Readings

2011-03-24T10:07:00.003-05:00

I 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.

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.

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!

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.

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!"

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.

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.

Philadelphia 1, or Arrival

2011-03-21T19:25:00.002-05:00

I 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.

The Other Washington 1, or Places Where Home Lives

2011-03-20T14:15:00.003-05:00

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:

"Hey! Kid! You lost?"

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."

"Oh," said the man, his beard and ponytail swaying in the wind, "you're going in the wrong direction. Follow us."

I kept a step or two behind them as we walked, not listening to them, until the man turned around again.

"So, welcome to DC! Is this your first time?" he asked.

"Nope," I said cheerfully, hoping to convey a simultaneous sense of city smarts and knowledge of my whereabouts.

"Funny," he answered "I could've sworn you were some nice farm girl from Minnesota, escaping to the big bad city."

I laughed. "No," I said, "I'm from Seattle, and am very much a city girl these days. I'm on a book tour."

"A book tour!" he cried. "What kind of book have you written?"

"It's my first collection of poetry," I answered.

"No kidding," he said, peering at me over his glasses. "What do you think of Garrison Keillor?"

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.

"Well," I began, "I think he's a fabulous storyteller, but has boring taste in poetry."

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!"

The husband wasn't fazed. "Oh yeah?" he asked me. "What makes you say that?"

I told him my thoughts, to which he replied, "Oh, you young people, no respect for your elders."

"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?"

The wife howled. The husband grinned. Then both of them stopped and indicated we'd reached the coffee shop.

"Good luck on your tour," she called as I schlepped my big duffel bag up the stairs.

*****

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 Wait, Achasverosh" and "Get Me To The Feast On Time."

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.

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.

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,

not to mention cherry blossoms.

Tomorrow, I head for Philadelphia. With any luck, I'll get to update from the magical internet bus!

Pittsburgh 1, or Traveling

2011-03-15T10:36:00.004-05:00

Pittsburgh 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.

But first, I had to get there.

I arrived at the Columbus Greyhound station a full hour early for my bus, as recommended. (Note to travelers: it is never, ever 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."

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

corner and began to work.

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.

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?"

She looked at me with knitted brows and a trace of exasperation.

"Honey, you're going to Pittsburgh? Your bus left an hour ago. On time."

This didn't quite register.

"But, didn't you say it'd be an hour late?"

"No, your bus came on time."

"But I could've sworn I heard you -"

"Ma'am, I was talking to the woman behind you."

I got rather quiet.

"So, what can I do now?"

"You can wait until the next bus. It comes in four hours."

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.

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?

I cooked dinner for her and her housemate the following night. We've been laughing a lot. It's Road Magic.

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."

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.

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.

Next stop: Washington DC. I arrive tomorrow.

Columbus 2, or Photos from WoWps

2011-03-11T13:10:00.001-05:00

Family Reunion

Columbus 1, or Quick Notes from Slamtown

2011-03-10T23:51:00.002-05:00

1) I didn't do so great in my bout tonight; I did great with one poem (a rendition of "Bilingual" that I beamed all the way through) and pretty badly with another (The First Seven Stages Of Finding Out She Has Cancer). Either way, the pressure's off, and I can have real fun tomorrow night, which showcases two of my new pieces.

2) Lindsay Miller, who has made the occasional appearance in these blogs over the years, deserves a call-out at this juncture. She is my best friend in the poetry community, and perhaps in the world. Seeing her is a bit like seeing someone from my home planet. Here is a good example: Lindsay and I were in the same bout. She won; I lost. Instead of sticking around to hear all the people congratulate her, she insisted on walking out with me (into the snowstorm that's happening right now!), listening to me vent my spleen, and then buying me mojitos and guacamole and flan to soothe my spirit.

3) It should also be mentioned that my recent losses (the Kibbutz, community, etc) are finally catching up to me. The aforementioned mojitos were more to toast my surfacing grief than my crappy scores.

4) There is an ice cream at North Market called Reisling Poached Pear. It was so exact and perfect, I expected it to be crunchy and wrapped in soft paper.

5) My friend Jo (also mentioned at least once in this blog) did a piece in my hotel room today that made me cry. I haven't cried at hearing a piece in two years, so it was a pretty big deal - and a pretty awesome poem.

That's all for now!

Transit 1, or In Between Jet Planes

2011-03-09T17:23:00.001-05:00

Not much to report, honestly. Occasionally, the blog gets to host "I'm alive and safe" posts. Right now, I'm waiting for my Detroit-Columbus flight to board. Flight here was cramped and rocky, but I'm fine. Just can't wait to get to WoWps and get started!

Seattle 156, or Couch Surfing

2011-03-04T15:59:00.002-05:00

It's not really couch surfing if you don't sleep on any couches, but that's basically what this is: the week between moving and leaving, with no space to call mine, except a storage unit on Lake City Way. My time is split between work, Secret Agent Lover Man, and these long mornings alone, working on poems with friends on the Internet in different time zones.

But I made dinner for Esther last night, since she's giving me a lovely place to rest my head and put my things while I'm still here. We did it together, drinking Mad Housewife Chardonnay, eating the sweetest wheel of Camembert from Port Townsend, sorting through her sparse kitchen tools and swapping stories about growing up.

I wish I'd taken pictures: creamy sunchoke soup with shallots and Gruyere, chicken sausage with sauteed greens and lemon, and for dessert, poached pears with balsamic reduction and hand-whipped cream.

We ate for two hours, leisurely, like Europeans, finishing the wine and licking cheese crumbs from our fingers.

Seattle 155, or Echoing Rooms

2011-02-26T20:40:00.004-05:00

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

2011-02-22T15:04:00.002-05:00

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

2011-02-15T12:35:00.002-05:00

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!

2011-02-07T21:55:00.000-05:00

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

2011-02-02T15:18:00.005-05:00

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!

Seattle 150, or Rainy Days Are Here For the Time Being

2011-01-24T20:32:00.003-05:00

I found a magic book last night. It was almost the best part of the evening, which began when Secret Agent Lover Man and I decided to schlep our weary tushes down to my favorite Thai place(at least, my favorite Thai place in my neighborhood - like many Seattleites, I have a favorite Thai place in just about every neighborhood.)

It had been raining most of the day - most of the week, actually. I'd worked too many night shifts to know what a normal sleep cycle felt like anymore, and had spent most of the day in bed developing that thick, musty, sleepy feeling. We walked through the ravine, breathing mist and evergreens, steadying each other down the steep, muddy stairs. Dinner was bright and tasty. How I love this part of a relationship - the introduction of my loves to my beloved. We've been trading favorite restaurants and stacks of books and music for weeks.

After dinner, the plan was to go home and start sorting through piles of junk in preparation for the big packing project, but SALM discovered a gift card to the bookstore in his wallet, and tempted me with a diversion. How could I say no?

It says something about us both that we almost immediately went to the children/young adult section. We browsed the aisles, pointing books out to one another, stepping over little kids and preteens, sprawled across the floor. Then SALM saw a graphic novel version of The Little Prince and picked it up, announcing "I think I need to read this right now." I grinned. And then he said "And I think you need to read this right now."

He had handed me a book. "Hereville: How Mika Got Her Sword" was the title. And, in smaller letters, just above it: "Yet Another Troll-Fighting 11-Year-Old Orthodox Jewish Girl."

I followed him to a carpeted spot between two giant wooden trees in the children's area, where we settled against the wall to begin reading. Soon, we were giggling, poking each other, pointing out great lines and images. "Hereville" is one of the only children's books I've ever seen that deals with Orthodox Judaism in a way that neither heroizes nor villianizes the culture and practices of observant Jews - rather establishes a kind of normality that shows the different oppressive and empowering parts of growing up in an Orthodox household. Mika, for example, is frustrated with her 14-year-old sister's constant moaning about finding a husband, but acknowledges that her sister's view isn't so different from the adults around her.

On the other hand, Mika's not-so-evil stepmother, Fruma, forces Mika to constantly argue both sides of any issue by playing devil's advocate at the drop of a hat. "You want to fight dragons?" she asks at one point. "How could you kill any of Hashem's creatures?" When Mika admits that Fruma has a point, Fruma then cries "You would let a dragon come to this town and eat your poor defenseless stepmother and do nothing?" Eventually, Mika becomes a skilled enough debater to - well, you'll find out what she does with it once you read it.

It was one of those books I finished with a laugh and sigh, and held close to my chest when I was done. And next to me, my Secret Agent Lover Man closed The Little Prince (one of his childhood favorites) and did the exact same thing. We looked at each other knowing there wasn't any other way we'd have rather spent the evening - and how so few of our friends would've felt the same way.

And that was magic.

Seattle 149, or Lacing Up My Traveling Boots

2011-01-16T03:07:00.002-05:00

I know the saying doesn't go exactly like this, but sometimes, in the grayest parts of winter, a young poet's thoughts turn to getting the hell out of Dodge. This winter has brought a difficult mixture of delight and tsuris, often both in the same hour. This causes some serious mood whiplash, as you can imagine.

My dearly beloved home, the Ravenna Kibbutz, is shifting. All four of us in House Gimel are moving out on March 1st, and whether the organization will continue as just House Aleph (aka Beit Kayam aka Ecohouse) remains to be seen. Either way, it's most likely that my house will be gone and my community much dimished when I return.

Return from what, exactly?

Oh yes. Remember the part where last year, I nearly got my book published? And then found another publisher who would publish my book? Do you remember the part where that publishing company turned out to be a little meshuggah and threw me for a tailspin of doubts about whether the thing would be published at all, and I changed jobs and got three new housemates and a new interest of the romantic persuasion?

Oh, you say, it's apparently been awhile.

Here's the basics: I'm going on tour again, much like I did during the summer of '08. Except this time, when I return to Seattle, I'll have a whole lot more for when I left. Like a job. And friends. And the aforementioned interest, who has decided to take the name (for blogging purposes) of Secret Agent Lover Man. He is a captivating sort, and has proved himself to be a champion Scrabble player, a charmer of kids and babies, a voracious reader, and collector of jokes. These, among other qualities, present the makings of a damn good time.

Ah, but yes, touring. Buses and trains and hopefully, gigs. Would you like me to come read poems at your school/synagogue/church/youth group/living room? Do let me know. I'd love to stop by. The current plan looks like this:

Seattle, WA

Columbus, OH (the Women of the World Poetry Slam is a convenient launch point)

Pittsburgh, PA

Washington DC

Philadelphia, PA

Boston, MA

Northampton, MA

Various towns in Bergen County, NJ

...and from there, I've got at least another week free until Passover, which I will spend with my family before returning to Seattle by May 1.

Charlotte 2, or Another Poem from iWPS: Poem-a-day #346

2010-12-12T13:28:00.002-05:00

The housekeeper at my hotel room door
is trying to tell me something.
She points to my unmade bed,
the freshly stacked towels,
says she is sorry the sheets
are still pulled back and rumpled.
I start to tell her it's okay, no problem,
de nada, when the Albanian poet
speaks up:
she's saying she didn't make your bed
because you left your pajamas on it,
and she won't touch your personal things.
And now, translation's grateful wake of smiles
passes through the room, and I tell
the housekeeper not to worry.
As the door closes, the Albanian rocks
her baby close, and explains
I speak immigrant.
I do, too. But I speak the kind
of a man with a foreign engineering degree
pacing Manhattan with the kind of hunger
it takes to feed a family.
It's true, sometimes, what they say
about our own kind.
Another Jew hired him, took a chance
on the greenhorn, saw him
through his night school master's degree.
The humble language of service,
of people's rumpled and unwashed selves,
is one I was never expected to learn;
my door, a threshold
of Babel.

Charlotte 1, or Poem from iWPS

2010-12-11T00:35:00.003-05:00

It's been a great two nights here in Charlotte. The poetry quality is high, and the competition has been full of surprises. I've gotten to spend time with many of my usual suspects, and some newer friends, who've come to the forefront in others' absences. And now, Poem-a-day #345:

Sometimes, I forget: many poets
don't know I can sing.
And the kids I teach don't know
that I struggle through the same
assignments I bring to their table.
And then Claire picks up her banjo
and begins to practice
on the edge of our beds,
filling the spaces between
the day's many, many words.
It is the most beautiful kind of
noise, this time of day.
I never believed my mother
when she told me she loved
to hear my piano mistakes
over and over again
from the next room.
Claire stops a lot,
and sometimes sighs
at herself like a swear word.
She apologizes for the mistakes,
and I think of my mother,
chopping onions in time to
halted Chopin preludes,
begging me to keep going
when the timer went off.

Somewhere over Minnesota 1, or We Really Live in the Future

2010-12-09T08:45:00.002-05:00

So, I write this from a plane, which makes it a little hard to tell where I am, because the clouds are in the way. In yet another moment brought to you by We Live In The Future, Now, I am on a plane, on the internet, for free. Seriously.

Anyway, I've been traveling again, which means it's time to blog! I flew down from Seattle to San Francisco on Sunday, and happily bounced around from D's new house (complete with three delightful, warm, welcoming housemates) to visiting beloved cousins J and A up at their house on the big hill in Santa Rosa.

My first night in the Bay area, I went to a small house show that seemed a lot like the Kibbutz's montly Coffeehouse - friends gathering to share artistic work and get feedback. One thing this show did differently was require artists to ask for exactly what kind of feedback they wanted. One person showed video clips of her new clowning act. Another did a monologue about her new one-woman show, still in the research phases. I read a few poems. We ate salmon and greens and tabouli, and talked about heady art things. I haven't had such an abstract conversation since college, I think, but I enjoyed it.

I did a small house show at J&A's place, which is uniquely suited for poetry house shows - it's really as much an art space as it is a house, thanks to A, who has spent the last couple of decades in paint, jewelry and sculpture. About five of their friends came over to nosh, drink, and hear from "J's young cousin, who's passing through town and reciting poems." I got to read a whole bunch from the Raizl/Rachel series, as well as some smaller work - less of the big slam stuff. They loved it. I loved it. Honestly, I love performing to people my parents' age. There's something about that generation - they're so unjaded about poetry, so completely unsullied by expectation. Or rather, their expectations are so incredibly low that I can be sure I'll surprise them in a good way.

Next up: Charlotte, NC, where I'll be volunteering at the Individual World Poetry Slam. Take advantage of the time change, loves - give me a call!

(this entry has been Posted From An Airplane. Seriously. Seriously.)

Seattle 148, or And It's Beginning to...

2010-11-23T17:47:00.002-05:00

When it snows in Seattle, the collective head comes off and the proverbial (and actual) chickens start running around. Or, rather, people turn into idiots. Real idiots. Idiots who would try to gun it up a hill that's covered in ice with cars close in front of them. Idiots who don't know how to control a skid. Idiots who don't have chains for their tires, don't own snowboots, and seem to think sledding is best done when wildly intoxicated.

The roads are closed. There are no snowplows. There is no salt or sand, or that disgusting organic molasses byproduct that got really popular in Massachusetts one year. In any self-respecting temperate climate, this would be a non-issue. The snow stopped around 2am - it could've been cleared by 5. But it wasn't. Because there are no g-ddamn plows.

I worked a 14 hour emergency shift, because I could walk to work instead of relying on the buses. It took one of my cowokers six hours to make her 20 minute commute. A new client was dropped off at 2am because the highway turned into a parking lot. The school expects at least two, maybe three snowdays from this.

I'm not leaving the house until I have to. I've got my nice cozy fire going, and promises of rice pudding, and I will leave the insanity where it is, thank you.

But I will say this: there is something wonderful about a pink sky over snowy evergreens, and the companionable silence that comes from empty roads.

Seattle 147, or Ode to Joy

2010-11-17T04:48:00.002-05:00

When the rain comes like a cold scolding, I do my best to brighten the kitchen.

(or, as this case may be, an ode to my father)

(can't claim these - they're Joel's. But I know how to make them.)

(Skagit River Ranch bacon is the only kind I've ever had that beat Oscar's.)

(purple cauliflower! who knew?)

(Apple and onion pie, inspired by Laura Ingalls Wilder.)

Seattle 146, or A Joke to Share

2010-11-11T17:56:00.002-05:00

I had a moment somewhat like this, recently.

After months of negotiation with the authorities, a Talmudist from Odessa was finally granted permission to visit Moscow. He boarded the train and found an empty seat. At the next stop, a young man got on and sat next to him.

The scholar looked at the young man and he thought: This fellow doesn’t look like a peasant, so if he is no peasant he probably comes from this district. If he comes from this district, then he must be Jewish because this is, after all, a Jewish district. But on the other hand, since he is a Jew, where could he be going? I’m the only Jew in our district who has permission to travel to Moscow.

Ahh, wait! Just outside Moscow there is a little village called Samvet, and Jews don’t need special permission to go to Samvet. But why would he travel to Samvet? He is surely going to visit one of the Jewish families there.

But how many Jewish families are there in Samvet? Aha, only two – the Bernsteins and the Steinbergs. But since the Bernsteins are a terrible family, so such a nice looking fellow like him, he must be visiting the Steinbergs. But why is he going to the Steinbergs in Samvet? The Steinbergs have only daughters, two of them, so maybe he’s their son-in-law. But if he is, then which daughter did he marry? They say that Sarah Steinberg married a nice lawyer from Budapest, and Esther married a businessman from Zhitomer, so it must be Sarah’s husband. Which means that his name is Alexander Cohen, if I’m not mistaken.

But if he came from Budapest, with all the anti-Semitism they have there, he must have changed his name. What’s the Hungarian equivalent of Cohen? It is Kovacs. But since they allowed him to change his name, he must have special status to change it. What could it be? Must be a doctorate from the University. Nothing less would do.

At this point, therefore, the scholar of Talmud turns to the young man and says, “Excuse me. Do you mind if I open the window, Dr. Kovacs?”

“Not at all,” answered the startled co-passenger, “But how is it that you know my name?”

“Ahhh,” replied the Talmudist, “It was obvious.”

Seattle 145, or Poem-a-day #309

2010-11-07T16:48:00.001-05:00

Raizl, Forhenwald, Bavaria, 1945

The Red Cross worker
says, in halting Polish,
“Don’t you like the soup?
It’s not my mother’s,
but at least the meat is real.”

How can Raizl explain?

Meal after meal,
she sits, clutching her spoon,
eating less than a bite,
naming the pieces of food:
this one is Aleksy,
(he loved potatoes)
this pepper, Elzbieta,
(who we called Erzi,
because she was Hungarian,
and moaned
that our food had no taste)
this piece of meat,
Jaga, gone,
just after the liberation,
as though she knew
her work was done.

“Maybe it’s too hot?”
says the Red Cross woman,
reaching to touch the side
of Raizl’s tin bowl.
When she finds it cold,
she shakes her head.
“Look at yourself!
You need to eat something;
you look like you just
came out of the camps!”

Raizl imagines
pinching a piece of meat
between her thumb and forefinger,
touching it to Aleksy’s lips,
leaving a meatgrease kiss.
They were all so hungry.

Seattle 144, or Cider House

2010-10-29T18:32:00.003-05:00

When I got the invitation, I almost squealed out loud. A cider pressing, in the next neighborhood over, at the brightly painted co-op. Bring your apples - your bruised, your half-eaten, your yearning to be crushed and poured and savored. E had a rickety old press, borrowed from yet another co-op, which featured a PVC pipe for a crank and so little glue we sometimes held it together with our knees.

When I arrived, groaning bag slung over my back, I found the beginnings of an assembly line. I slipped in to share a cutting board, grabbed a knife from the wall, followed the labeled cabinets to a towel and colander, washed my apples and joined the group. A child sat at the table, doing math problems. Her mother sat next to her, knife in hand, talking and tossing cores into a bowl. We chopped until we filled the stock pot - big enough to bathe in, it came nearly to my hip.

Dinner materialized when it got dark - the long kitchen table slowly moved from apples to potluck - beet salad and fresh bread, my sundried tomato-walnut pesto over pasta, ghost-shaped cookies, banana muffins. The house was full, and noisy, everything spilling over. I took a break from the press, prowled the common rooms of the house, let the surroundings tickle me: a bathroom sink, disconnected from its pipes so the water dropped straight into a bucket to be used for flushing the toilet. A labeled cabinet by the front door reading "extra blankets." Copies of letters written to company heads and political figures. The hall table with the blank name tags and jar full of markers, with specific instructions to include one's preferred pronoun. The hall telephone with the sticker "this phone has been tapped by order of the US Patriot Act." The jerryrigged feat of a kitchen.

It turned out that only E and I knew how to use the press - how to dump the chopped apples into the hopper, grind them down and then use the wooden paddle, the giant screw, and the apples' own weight to press until juice ran in sweet, thin rivulets into the bucket. Each cycle took about twenty minutes from start to finish. I remembered the cider party at Red Truck, the honey harvests from my childhood, Apple Days when visiting Marlboro. This party had the same harvest joy, the sticky hands of plenty.

After three nonstop hours of pressing, we had about five gallons - not counting the stuff we'd drunk in celebration or sent home with people. Most of it went into the basement - E wanted to experiment with fermenting it. I walked home with a mason jar of cider cradled in my sweater, sweet, grimy fingers, delight at seeing my breath. Autumn, indeed. Who needs foliage when there's cider and early sunsets?

Seattle 143, or poem-a-day #300

2010-10-26T02:06:00.003-05:00

They ignore me, mostly.

Not impolitely -

they are obedient

as crocuses,

perfectly willing

to take the broom

or mop

or towel

and complete their chores

without my asking,

or to say "good!"

and flash me a thumbs-up

when I serve them food.

We color together;

today we carved a pumpkin.

They cracked roasted seeds

between their teeth, suckled

the salt.

Their conversations

bounce across the rooms,

missing me each time.

My workday

is not quite loneliness

or boredom,

but draws a card from each.

Sandra comes out of her room

with a plastic bag in her hand,

offers the contents around.

When she reaches me,

I look into her palms,

take a piece of dried fruit

covered in spices,

take a bite.

I smile, flash her a thumbs-up.

"Bueno!"

She chatters at me in Spanish

for a few seconds,

before both our faces fall

in that familiar way

of Babel.

Finally, she says

"Mannngooo"

and

"Mi Mamaaa,"

with a kind of patience.

I smile.

"Mango - tu mama."

And she smiles.

And we nod,

chewing,

this other woman's home

reaching my throat.

Seattle 142, or Tastes of my new home

2010-10-18T00:44:00.005-05:00

Autumn in Seattle leaves me an odd mix of restless and sluggish. There's lots of news: I have a new job, working with homeless youth. It's different than my old job; they're older, more functional. No restraints. No side-hugs. No laundry. No monitoring every conversation between clients. Clients that can sustain a conversation, though - that's awesome.

Last week, I started craving chopped liver. It's not something I ate all the time as a kid - just often enough to remember how much I liked it - earthy, salty, with hints of egg and onion. In my grandmother's Queens apartment, they served it in a cut glass bowl. I pinched mouthfuls when no one was looking; the adults always spread a thin layer over crackers and rye bread. "Too rich," I was told when I asked for a spoonful.

Sometimes, when my other grandmother was roasting chicken, I'd catch her before she tossed the liver and beg her to fry it up for me. She always did, muttering about cholesterol as she flipped it in the pan.

At the store, they sell them frozen, six or seven in a package, for cheap. I looked up a few recipes online, found the basic ingredients and set to work. The livers went under the broiler, salted, their thick smell stampeding through the house. Masha came home, smiling. My once-Swiss landlord came by, leaned against the counter and took a long sniff. "We used to fry them in butter, as hot as we could," she said. I explained why I was using olive oil, mincing onions to throw in the pan after the livers.

She stayed while I mixed, boiled and chopped, eating slices of the rye bread I'd bought to go with it. No time to start a fresh sourdough.

The smell of onions is home. The smell of liver is comfort, the promise of luxury to come. The eggs, perfectly hardboiled and chopped, turn it creamy, as does the spoonful of unorthodox mustard. Landlord and I eat half-sandwiches, topped with little vinegar pickles in the late afternoon sun. She closes her eyes as she chews, saying "it's different, of course, but you can't beat that taste. It's so humble."

This is me making home: a collection of tastes and smells and sounds that didn't come from anywhere but my own heart. It's the most honest thing I know how to do. And you may not see where it came from, may call it pretense, fabrication, construction - there are so many names for the things we don't understand, the things we also call G!d.

I am telling you: this is where I come from, now. I come from my kitchen, wherever it is.

Seattle 141, or Poem-a-day #276

2010-10-02T01:09:00.001-05:00

The Bravest Thing My Mother Ever Did

was not the years of shoulderpad armor,
of being the only woman to slip
and chew her way to the board rooms
and corner offices,
but what happened after:

the night she told us
she couldn't do it anymore,
she asked our permission

to put her compass
in her pocket
and ask the stars
for directions.

When I consider
how alike we are,
I don't know how she did it -
wandered restless
for so many months,
believing she could do anything.

Seattle 140, or Gratuitous Food

2010-09-29T17:14:00.003-05:00

For a girl who hated melted cheese in most forms, it surprised everyone when I turned into a mac and cheese hound in college. This particularly decadent effort includes a cream so thick it had turned to butter in the bottle, three kinds of cheese - cheddar, feta and pecorino romano - sundried tomatoes, shredded greens and sauteed mushrooms. Baked in my trusty cast iron, of course.

My father hates beets, but he enjoyed the purplish carrots in this pile of roasted veg from the summer. The carrots, I am sure, came from the eccentric gardener a few miles down the road who runs a plumbing parts store out of the back of his mother's house. He grows the sweetest tomatoes I've ever had. And, when he's in a good mood, he lets me harvest carrots.

An early-summer study in simplicity - the fava beans were an experiment, to see what I could pull off. I don't recommend making fava beans alone. There's simply too much labor involved to only serve one person. One requires at least one admirer. The bread is pumpernickel, from the bakery. The egg, from my egg lady at the market - the one who sells goat meat and asks me about my knee. The beets and favas came straight from the farm box that gets delivered once a week in the summer.

Seattle 139, or Sukkot

2010-09-19T22:02:00.013-05:00

And when we have fasted, prayed, felt the twisting of our bodies and hearts, cried out to the heavens (to ourselves?) for forgiveness, and when there is nothing left inside...

we build. We reach. We put up walls made of cloth, and a roof of branches and say, "Come in. We've spent the last week figuring out that life is only as solid as the winds and the rain will allow, but today there's sunshine. So, come. Sit. Feast."

All photo credits to Debs Gardner.

Seattle 138, or Poem-a-day #258

2010-09-12T02:39:00.001-05:00

Piyyut for T'Shuvah

And what if I'm not ready?
And what if others deem my wrongdoings
unforgivable?
And what if I don't really mean my apologies?
And what if they don't mean theirs?
And what if the thought
of even approaching some of those I've wronged
has me sick and shaking?
And what if the thought
of some of them approaching me
hardens and sharpens my willng tongue?
And what if it's embarrassing to have wronged so many I love so much?
And what if they do forgive me?
What then?

Seattle 137, or Rosh Hashanna

2010-09-10T21:17:00.003-05:00

It started early this year. Not just in the way it bumped up against Labor day, or spun into Shabbat, making for 3 major dinners in a single week at the Kibbutz. Not just that the days are still long enough to take post-shul naps and wake up long before the sun goes down. This year, it started with the Machzor.

A Machzor is the specific prayerbook used for High Holy Days - Rosh Hashanna and Yom Kippur. That's it. A whole book for two holidays. Because they're used so seldomly, they sit on the high shelves, keeping watch as we keep the rest of the lower shelf books from gathering dust. They're hardly ever updated or rewritten - who wants to spend so much on a book we use twice a year?

Luckily, someone in the Conservative movement decided it was time - about twelve years ago. And true to form, they've been working on producing this book ever since, complete with halting starts and funding crises. I first caught wind of the project a few years ago, back in Massachusetts, when a congregation I was davening (praying) with was chosen to test-drive a chunk of the new Machzor.

I loved it so much I sneaked it home in my tallis bag, and kept using it every year. The translations are beautiful. The commentary is diverse, relevant, and well-written. Someone finally decided to stop referring to G!d as "Father" and "King" and "He" - instead we have "G!d" and "Sovereign" "G!d of our Ancestors" - and to stop translating the word Adonai (my lord - nothing wrong with the translation, except that it's awkward and more Christian than anything. Besides, anyone who davens knows what Adonai means.)

This year, as soon as I found out it was finally published, and available, I ordered a copy. I even wrote poems about how excited I was about this book.

Then I got a call from the booksellers.

"We're so sorry," he said, "but there are just too many orders. Yours won't arrive until after Rosh Hashanna."

I was sad, but not distraught. But lo and behold, what should arrive in my mailbox the following day, but a carefully wrapped copy of the new Machzor!

At first, I thought it was the man who called me, taking pity on the young woman with the slight quaver in her voice. But then I noticed: this book was from a different bookseller. When I checked the invoice, I saw that my dear friend Esther had ordered a copy for me weeks ago, and it had arrived just in time for me to use on Rosh Hashanna.

There were other wonderful things about RH this year - I did blow shofar in a synagogue, by the way - but this is what I will remember. The gift of a book. A door into the new year.

Ode to Lev Shalem

You are a door.

Your name means
"full heart," and you
are actually not a door; you are a book,
which also makes you a door,
if you are good at what you do.

I regret being unable
to buy you in a shop,
to choose you from a shelf,
cradle your spine and covers
as I smile at strangers on the street.

The last Jewish bookstore
has disappeared from my neighborhood.
I have bought you sight unseen,
and I am still convinced
that it is one of the most important
purchases I will ever make.

How often does one find
a guide to an overspilling heart?
Who expects to find delight
between the pages of a prayerbook?
I remember the privilege
of proofreading your first pages,
in shul, in prayer, beating my heart,
which had suddenly gone still.
It was like meeting my bashert
in a cafe, and then losing them
to a journey of unspecified length.

When I heard of your arrival,
I felt the same heartquickening
of a lover, returned and ready
to take my hand.

Seattle 136, or new web design

2010-09-04T16:02:00.001-05:00

My poetry website was long overdue for some new designs. Check it out!

Also, there will be real writing on here soon. Davka and I have a plan to rejuice each others' blogs.

Seattle 135, or Recovery

2010-09-01T15:33:00.002-05:00

Honestly, I don't feel like writing about it. I had knee surgery again - my fifth in as many years. Recovery's been going okay. Right now, this is the most entertaining thing in my life:

Paradox 1, or Upmountain

2010-08-19T17:11:00.001-05:00

In the mountains, the beautiful, little green bumphills with that beauty mother lake with the turtle under the dock that tries to snack my toes if I stay unkicking too long. Sucking down emails whenever I come to town, pick up messages, remember the rest of the world - when I'm not pining for them. Read 6 novels this week, and got another five from the little library, where they nod like it's no big deal when I tell them I don't have a phone number.

Glorious seclusion. Sweet, slow starvation. This land is my land. It tousles my hair, teasing of course you'll come back here. We're holding your heart hostage.

Twin Cities 1, or The Kindness of Strangers

2010-07-31T00:06:00.002-05:00

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

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

It's a good life, the road.

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

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

Seattle 133, or Happiness also looks like this

2010-07-28T21:34:00.002-05:00

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

Seattle 132, or When We Were Happy

2010-07-27T12:49:00.008-05:00

Seattle 131, or Video!

2010-07-23T12:22:00.002-05:00

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

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

Seattle 130, or Poem for Maya Hersh

2010-07-20T17:27:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 129, or Poem-a-day #195

2010-07-14T19:03:00.001-05:00

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

Raizl. Rasia. Rachel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 128, or Poem-a-day #135

2010-07-12T02:14:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

3) Silence. Pretend it's deliberate.

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

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

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

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

Seattle 127, or Market to Market

2010-07-10T14:27:00.009-05:00

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

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

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

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

Seattle 126, or Poem-a-day #193

2010-07-09T14:07:00.001-05:00

Loving A Man Whose Father is Dying

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

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

2010-07-08T11:58:00.002-05:00

But makes the catch! From yesterday's class.

Seattle, 124, or Culture Shock Storytime with Miss Colleen

2010-07-06T18:37:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

Seattle 123, or A Very Merry Unbirthday

2010-07-05T01:37:00.005-05:00

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

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

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

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

I hope my birthday celebrations always come with good eating.

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

Seattle 122, or Poem-a-day #182

2010-06-27T23:34:00.001-05:00

Oh, Pride.
You ragged gossamer
dress-up trunk,
you wandering lemonade
nostalgia, you aging, domesticated
peacock.
You were an old-timer's tale,
even before we met,
and now I visit your zoo:
ancient dolphin, have you become
so caged you've forgotten
how to leap?
Do I dare disturb
the open-faced youngsters
who swallow you
like sweet fruit?

Seattle 121, or Hey, This Looks Familiar!

2010-06-25T20:22:00.002-05:00

Look! My story got published on Jew-ish dot com!

Seattle 120, or Snapshots from a Birthday

2010-06-22T01:15:00.003-05:00

click

I'm shaking halfway up the ladder, heading for my first jump in my second trapeze lesson. All the failure of last class is with me. I've been going over the moves in my head all week, visualizing the trick perfectly. But what if I grab onto the bar and fail again?

At the top, one of my instructors from last time greets me. She says, you'll get it today. My feet are worryingly slippery. The platform shakes, held in place by cables instead of bars. She hooks me into the safety line, reminds me to keep my hips forward. Today, a woman is acting as the main caller. Ready! Hup! Good! Knees up, get 'em up! Good! Hands down! Good! Grab the bar! Good! And drop your legs! Get ready to flip - kick back! - forward! - back! - leggo!

The trick goes flawlessly. I do it twice more, just to prove I can. The teacher from last week says Have you been doing crunches? You're a different person this week - so much more confident! She teaches me a new trick to work on: the "Heels Off" dismount. It looks like this:

I screw it up - mostly by looking down at the net instead of up towards the catcher when I let go. When I learned to steer a boat, Dad taught me "you drive where you look, so don't look anywhere but where you're headed for more than a second." Same is true for trapeze - if you let your head drop, you'll go down - headfirst. I scraped my nose on the net.

But when it came time to test my knee hang with the catcher, it went off without a hitch - Ready! Hup! Good! Knees up! Hands down and - good! But as soon as he caught me, the catcher howled Why are you wearing your glasses?! Whoops. I laughed as he dropped me into the net. Tomorrow will prove whether or not I really got better - we'll see how sore I am in the morning.

click

I curled up in the bookstore for a few hours, read old novels and rested. The orange cat that prowls the stacks slipped me a moment of his silky head each time he walked by.

click

Ate at the bookstore for dinner, decided spur-of-the-moment not to go with my original plans. Why? Because as I was getting ready to go eat dinner, a Chopin nocturne started playing. Nocturnes are my special pieces. I took it as a sign. Why not. The waiter was fabulously gay, called me darling, stumbled over the Greek word for the night's special -

Avgolemono? Avgolemono soup?!

Yes, that's it.

I ordered a cup, with a tomato salad on the side. He gave me thin slices of sourdough with a sharp, peppery olive oil. The soup was not the bright yellow broth I'm used to - much paler, with chunks of chicken and carrot, and well-cooked rice, so soft and creamy. Just enough lemon - more than enough pepper. Homesick-for-Dad soup. The salad, sweet heirloom tomatoes with sherry and parsley and grilled halloumi cheese and toasted bread - a well-executed lesson in simplicity. Ate with my eyes closed.

click

Came home to find Housemates and Friend around the table. Happy Birthday! they said. Have some, uh, curry. We played card games and laughed until I couldn't keep my head off the table. Z made banana chocolate chip muffins with twice the butter she needed. They ate my imperfect bread. We made jokes and talked in funny accents.

click

Seattle 119, Cloud Spit and Rag Rugs

2010-06-20T20:08:00.002-05:00

I feel like launching a protest against G-d - a universal boycott until conditions improve. My friends' lives are chipmunk cheeks of unfair and not-their-fault, of addiction, and heartbreak, and sickness. I spent today cleaning my room and reorganizing my bookshelf, taking breaks to knead bread and eat vegetarian sausages and suck on the phone like an agony milkshake. When did we inherit all this pain? When did our cracks turn into fault lines? Are ever going to be safe from the earthquakes?

It has been a cold and rainy June. The peas blossomed, then fruited, and are shriveling. I eat them on my way between houses, snatching one every so often. I don't touch the lettuce. Why did we plant so much lettuce? There's garlic in the back yard, full of scapes wanting harvest. My share from the farm box has small carrots, a fistful of chard, tiny beets with huge greens. More damn lettuce. Today, the clouds have alternated between crying and spitting and breathing condensation all over us. I miss hot summer rains that chased humidity. I want to storm-watch something fierce. It never roars here. It aches.

Late nights at the kibbutz around the kitchen table. I'm ripping Tamar's excess fabric into strips, see if I can't make one of those braided rugs that became so popular to make in college. Remember those worn-carpet days in the living room, with old tshirts and scissors and the growing piles of rags and talking over the teevee and shiny fingers from the popcorn? Remember how we tried to stitch home into an institution?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm going trapezing again. I want to make this Year of the Body. I'm not sure what that means yet; it's been kicking around in my head for weeks. Perhaps I'll have a better idea by the time Rosh Hashanah rolls around, when I devote real time to thinking about this. Maybe that rug will get finished, and find a place near a door, on a cold floor, somewhere one stop from the graveyard. Maybe the clouds will breathe and part for a smile. Maybe G-d will stick a white flag made out of kerchiefs and ballpoint pens and say "Okay, you win. You win."

Seattle 118, or New Look

2010-06-18T20:50:00.002-05:00

Whatcha think? Is it hard to read? Easier? More boring? Thoughts?

In other news: my book is likely going to be published this fall, by Six Gallery Press in Pittsburgh, PA.

Huzzah!

Seattle 117, or In Which We Fail, With Style

2010-06-09T18:10:00.004-05:00

Once, in the privacy of a living room, a friend tried to teach me to bellydance. Only one other friend was present, learning also. We did some warm-ups, then basic moves. After about ten minutes, I got stuck. My hips seemed to disconnect from my eyes and my brain. Next to me, my other friend was struggling a little, but got it fairly quickly. I called it quits, went to the bathroom and washed the tears out of my eyes.

When I came out, my friend looked at me with kindness, and a fleck of impatience. "Dude," he said, "if you're so scared of looking bad, you need to take up juggling. Two months of dropping balls will shut that up quick."

From a writer who regularly publishes half-baked work on the internet, and a kindergartener who only sort of cared about coloring in the lines, one might be surprised to bump up against my perfectionist streak. The streak sounds something like this "You are lumpy, awkward, stiff and weak. Lumpy, awkward, stiff and weak. Lumpy, awkward -" it's got great, paralyzing rhythm. Sometimes, it looks like a fear of something else.

Today, it looked like a fear of heights. I had the fantastic opportunity to take a class at Emerald City Trapeze, a giant barn of ropes and rigging just south of downtown. I went because I love to fly; because I needed an excuse to turn my body, if not my life, a little upside down. And besides, I was going to trapeze class. Even saying it sounded badass.

I expected it would be fun - I was right. I expected it to be fairly easy, since they advertise that anyone can try. I thought it might be like the first day of learning a new language, when you learn to say Hello, and Goodbye and My Name Is, and walk away feeling pretty proud of yourself for having begun.

Take a minute, giggle. You should.

Our class began with some on-the-ground instruction about safety, then some time on a low-hanging trapeze to get the idea of the trick we were going to do: a knee hang with a back flip dismount. Done fairly correctly by a beginner, it looks like this:

I clambered to the top of the ladder, hooked into my harness, and went. Boom. Did okay, but messed up the back flip, lost momentum, and had to be slowly lowered to the net, instead of flying down on my back. Second try: got the flip, but took too long to hook my knees over the bar, messed up the timing. Third: Got my knees up, but took too long to let go.

And so on, and so on. By the end of five tries, I hadn't completed the trick perfectly, or even well. My arms shook, my hands were raw, and my anxiety was sky-high. I climbed the ladder again. My teacher saw me sweating, told me to take a minute. "Don't look down," she said.

"No," I answered, "it's not the height, it's the fear of not doing it right."

She nodded, told me to take all the nervous energy and focus it. I took a bunch of deep breaths, settled in, and waited for the universal circus call of hup! that cued my jump.

The trick went well - not perfect, but well enough to feel each >pop!< Basic physics: on the outside of the swing (when you're at your highest) you're weightless. In the middle of the swing (at your lowest), you weigh up to two and a half times your body weight, making it difficult to do anything. When you execute a trick correctly, at the outset of each swing, it feels like a Rube-Goldberg machine - each piece falling exactly into place at the right time, creating a quick burst of adrenaline. My body knew.

I yelled "YES!" as I fell neatly back from the dismount, and heard the cowbell ring. The cowbell is an ECT thing - when you've done your trick correctly enough to earn a turn with the catcher, it's sounded with the bell. I rolled off the net, feeling the triumph endorphins soar through my body. I was a little bit hooked. The little-girl-who-wanted-to-be-a-gymnast came racing back through my fleshy, curvy body and said "whoa. We just flew."

I took a rest before my turn with the catcher - I was pretty tired, and wanted to be sure I had enough energy to pop it out perfectly. The trick with the catcher is the same as without, except it looks like this:

I bent my knees, waited - hup! - and took off. Immediately, I could feel something was off. I had my knees bent too much, creating drag and slowing my swing, which threw off the ever-important timing. I could hear my teacher trying to get me back on track, but it was over as soon as it started - I could feel the catcher's hands scraping mine, then let go as I went down, yelling "NO!"

They told me to come back next time. Try it again. I schlumped out of there covered in chalk dust and near tears. But I want to go back. The flying - when it happens, when I can feel the pop - is exhilarating. And I'm convinced that failing in public is good for me. Eventually, I might even take up juggling.

Seattle 116, or Thoughts on Work and Gaza

2010-06-03T00:25:00.002-05:00

Ever since the news about the flotilla raid off the shores of Gaza broke, I have been going a little nuts. I pay attention to what's going on in Israel and Palestine, but it's been awhile since the international spotlight was burning so tightly on the Middle East. I've been hungry for news, from any source - Twitter, blogs, friends, slowly watching the stories ripple out to the New York Times, the Guardian, CNN. I'm not going to summarize the situation here, and the article I linked to only gives part of the story, but let me know if you want more. I can send you any number of places. I'm sure a few of my readers would be happy to send you places, also. ;)

This is a good example of one way I see the flotilla's efforts.

"The first thing you need to know about the Gaza flotilla disaster is that the intention of the activists on board the ships was to break the Israeli blockade. Delivering the embargoed goods was incidental.

In other words, the activists were like the civil rights demonstrators who sat down at segregated lunch counters throughout the South and refused to leave until they were served. Their goal was not really to get breakfast. It was to end segregation."

I could debate this one for a long time - and have. Publicly, on sites like facebook, and in emails with my family, and phone calls with friends. I'm getting tired. But I've also been trying to figure out why this particular incident hit me so hard. Here is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to a friend today:

"So, for the last few months at work, there's been one cottage that's consistently out of control. I haven't been on a single shift there that's gone according to plan or schedule, and in a therapeutic group home where the consistent schedule is part of the therapy, part of what helps kids feel safe, that's not okay.

At this cottage, I don't get to make many decisions. I arrive, and am told the plan: begin the shift very restrictive, very low privileges, make all the kids' decisions for them and tell them what is happening. If they can handle it, the plan is to relax a little, introduce more choice, more freedom, more privileges. We never get past the restriction. Feeling so cornered, denied space and freedom of movement, gives the kids little choice but to blow out. And then we go into riot mode.

But we've also tried wiping the slate clean, assuming full privileges, taking kids outside to play, erasing consequences for yesterday's misbehavior. That doesn't work either. Without knowing where the limits are, kids push and test until they find them. And sometimes we escape riot mode, but it's almost never fun.

The thing that works the best is separating the kids - sending one or two unstable kids over to another cottage, trading them for calmer kids. We'll take some outside to run around, and give some kids privileges like one-on-one time with staff, to affirm the good, safe choices they've made.

But we don't have enough staff to disperse like that. If even one kid blows out, the whole plan gets thrown off. You need two staff to do a restraint, so if I'm leading a group of three while playing outside, and someone inside needs to be restrained, I have to bring all my kids inside with me in order to help out. Not so good.

Having to go into riot mode means somewhere, we didn't do our jobs. We didn't manage the environment well enough, didn't keep it safe and calm.

We tell the kids: you have choices. You have control. You can do it! Your time-out starts whenever you choose to sit calmly. They look at me like I'm nuts, ask me the same thing I used to ask my parents, "What do you mean I have a choice? You're the one who tells me when to sit and when to get up! You tell me when to eat, when to sleep. I can't even go to the bathroom without your permission! You have the control here, not me!"

I don't have an answer for them. But when we restrict the kids to keep them safe, and they feel pressured to the point of hitting someone, or trying to jump out a window, it begins a chain reaction of not-choices. I have no choice but to hold them, or help them get into the de-escalation room. It's my job. They have no choice but to fight. It's instinct. I have no choice but to consequence them. It's the therapeutic program.

Even if I did a bad job managing the environment, which led to their outburst, we still hold them accountable for their actions. Because our job is to teach self-control, to curb dangerous impulsiveness, to teach them to handle their feelings of fear, frustration, grief and anger in safe ways that don't hurt themselves or others.

When I hear about Gaza, I think about this chain reaction. When people are restricted and oppressed, to the point of firing homemade rockets over a wall, and the Israeli army says "We have no choice. They chose to fire rockets, and we now have to go in and kill the ones who fired them. We have to impose blockades to keep our people safe. We have to be restrictive. If we allow for freedom of movement, freedom of trade, won't they just test the limits until they find them?"

I want to believe that the Gazans won't. But I see too clearly every day what happens between a traumatized people, and those charged with keeping things "safe." We devolve into a series of not-choices on all sides.

The question is this: who really has the power to change things? Is it me, and my coworkers? Our administrative bosses? The psychologists who design the therapeutic program? The Israelis? The kids? The Palestinians? We say: things would be so much easier, so much safer and better for everyone if they could cooperate. But they are sick kids. Sick with PTSD, sick with traumatic histories and mental illness. Sometimes they *can't* stay safe, no matter how hard they try. The environment is too overwhelming. There's not enough space for them to move. My coworker once asked me, "Have you ever stepped into one of the kids' rooms when they're not there and closed the door? The energy is terrifying. All that screaming, all that terror - it's seeped into the walls. You can feel it."

Do we leave them a choice that also allows for dignity and humanity?

I see what happens to the kids who are cooperative and compliant amidst the chaos: they slip through the cracks. We give them rewards for good behavior, smile, high-five them, and run to deal with the next crisis. They're given no more real freedom than the kids we're holding on the floor.

This is what I mean when I say I don't know what to do about Gaza."

Seattle 115, or Some New Poems

2010-05-30T03:03:00.003-05:00

So, I didn't get the book deal. Oh well. At least (least? really, it's more than the least) I have a manuscript that honestly represents the best I can do right now. This week's job is researching publishers, and exploring dental options for the woefully underinsured (I think I cracked a tooth on a pebble left in some lettuce from our garden!).

In the meantime, some new poems from the Raizl/Rachel/Rasia series. More about those can be found in this entry.

Rachel, Westchester, 1975

The kitchen floor,
once a linoleum chess board,
is a junkyard of errant paint drops,
streaks of buttercup and cyan,
vermilion and cream.
Rose thinks it's wonderful,
tells everyone that her mother
is an artist
who doesn't believe in vacuums,
walks barefoot to the mailbox
and once served toast and pickles
for dinner. Rose, the dreamer,
Brailles the blue drops on the cupboard doors,
Rachel's red thumbprint
on the oven.

Rasia, Oberlangen, 1944

Jaga is a stout woman.
She once stood toe-to-toe with a blizzard
as the wind laughed away her shouted orders.
No one knows how her dresses stay so crisp,
so fixed at attention, firing off her shoulders.
She is king of the camp. Nevermind the Germans.
Even they respect Jaga.

When December howled into January,
Jaga assembled the flagging Resistance women
in the center of camp, announced
Marianna's baby is due in two weeks.
And he will live naked, because his mother has nothing.
Twelve days later, the women presented Marianna
with an entire wardrobe of baby clothes
made of yarn scraps and the bottom inches of dresses.

Rasia is quiet in the camp.
She follows Jaga's orders - the official ones
and the ones that come through the chain of command
in the barracks, during sleepless nights.
They are stockpiling nails, screws, rocks -
preparing an uprising. During the day,
Jaga advocates for church services and music,
to drive away suicide threats. The Germans comply.
It is a POW camp, if an illegal, hidden one.

On the third day, Rasia crouched against the outside wall
of the barracks, bleeding fists of tissue and swallowing moans.
Jaga found her before evening rations,
studied Rasia's sweaty hair, the dark, indelible bloom
beneath her. She held a hand out to Rasia
and pulled her to her feet.

"At least you won't have to worry how to clothe it,"
was all she said.

Rachel, Westchester, 1978

"Mama," says Rose,
still her mother's dreamer,
even in coveralls and a sloppy haircut,
"her name is Elizabeth. And I love her."

Rachel holds a scream in her belly.
She puts her mug down,
rattling it into the saucer,
looks over Rose's shoulder
at her newest, unfinished painting.
It's a field of cattails,
deer-munched and bristly.

"We'll talk about this later,"
she tells Rose's trembling face.
She stands, goes toward the easel,
a few knuckles lightly grazing
her daughter's cheek as she passes.

She doesn't hear Rose's hard breath,
or her exit, doesn't register the acid
in her throat.
Her hands shake just enough
to show the wind in the cattails.

Rasia, Mazoweickie, Poland, 1943

She didn't know who fired the first shot.
Later, she would guess: Zuzanna, Aleksy,
Elzbieta - all the company sharpshooters.
By then, she would know the difference
between a warning shot and a kill shot.
She would quietly marvel
that they had wasted a bullet
on her, filthy possum, scarcely more
than a starving tangle of hair.

Aleksy told her once -
"It was the fire in your step.
We could tell you had lost everything,
and you were still walking. We needed fighters
like you."

She still changed her name.

Seattle 114, or Another Prague Blog!

2010-05-19T03:37:00.002-05:00

"American healthcare system: You have a cold, suck it up, that'll be $30. Czech healthcare system: It's a virus, drink lots of tea, stay in bed at least five days! Here, take this note to your employer and come back for a check-up on Friday. That'll be $1.50." ~Colleen

My friend Colleen, from college, has moved to Prague and is teaching preschool in Kolin, a town not far from Prague. She has a most excellent blog, where you can read about all her adventures. Czech her out!

Seattle 113, or Graduations

2010-05-18T17:47:00.003-05:00

I went back East this weekend. Funny, how I've begun saying back East instead of back home, how even the locals in Seattle say "back East" though they've never lived there. I still have homes scattered across that dear right coast - Mammy and Paps' house, the whole of the Pioneer Valley, my parents' house in the Adirondacks - but no single, central Place Where My Stuff Is. If I ever get to show my kids where I grew up, it'll be a drive-by sighting, at best. If they haven't totally McMansioned my old neighborhood.

It was a weekend of celebration - for my sister, graduating magna cum laude from a school that's pushed her into new creative realms, for me, finishing my first full-length manuscript. The two of us rock out at what we do - photography and poetry. She's got the awards to prove it.

The graduation itself was boring, like every other graduation, punctuated by that tiny thrill of hearing my sister's name be called, with her honors. The rest of the time, I played hangman on the back of the program with Youngest Cousin, now almost fifteen, and - it must be said - officially taller than me. There was a picnic after, in the sunshine, where we sat with platters of cheese and sushi rolls and salami, our shoulders and arms cooking to a parchy pink. My sister's friends stopped by to introduce themselves; we recognized several from the photos in my sister's exhibition. We helped her break down her photos and sculpture and pack out her room.

And when it was all over, the caravan of family pulled away from the rural Pennsylvania campus, and headed home. Wherever that was.

Seattle 112, or Quick Note

2010-05-12T14:20:00.001-05:00

Manuscript: sent.

I hear the results around the 21st. Twist your fingers!*

*Crossing one's fingers is a piece of Christ imagery, so, as a good Jew, I prefer to twist my fingers, like...uh...strands of challah!

Seattle 111, or Dive into the Skunk Pile

2010-05-01T11:30:00.003-05:00

As I was leaving physical therapy on Friday morning, I checked my phone messages. I had one text from Lindsay, one of my strongest poet buddies. She and I have shared many a room at Big Slams over the last couple of years. I trust her work, I trust her heart, and she's never let me down. She's someone I look forward to growing with. Her text read:

"Congrats on the write bloody nod, querida! Now knock 'em dead for rea. I'm proud as hell of you."

Write Bloody is a publishing company founded by a slam poet. They've published many of my friends and mentors, including Sierra DeMulder, Mike Mcgee, Jeanann Verlee, Andrea Gibson and Karen Finneyfrock .

Write Bloody calls for submissions once a year, in a two week period at the end of March. From all the submissions, 24 make the final cut, and are invited to send full 40-poem manuscripts to the editorial board. 8 winners get their book published.

I submitted to Write Bloody under the hope that I'd get a really nice rejection letter. Lindsay's text was my first clue that I'd made the top 24. I called her, just to check.

"You made it, babe" she said. "They announced a sneak preview of the last round of finalists on their radio show, and the official word will be up on Monday."

I shrieked. Twice. Loudly enough to attract the attention of people in cars.

And then it hit me: I have exactly eleven days to craft an entire BOOK of poems.

"It's no problem, lady," said Lindsay. "I'll be one of your readers; you know I've got your back the whole way. It's about time you got some recognition for the work you do."

I spent the rest of the day trying to cull every single poem that could possibly go in this thing and get it all in one document. At the moment, I've got 60+ pieces in there, so maybe it's time to start whittling and shaping.

I'm going underground for the next while. See you all when it's over!

Seattle 110, or Grand Slam!

2010-04-29T12:02:00.002-05:00

Did I mention we had our Seattle Poetry Slam Finals? And that I blogged my head off about it, over on Karen Finneyfrock's blog?

Seattle 109, or Raizl/Rachel Poems

2010-04-27T14:44:00.002-05:00

As I've been moving through my 365/365 poem-a-day project, little arcs have crept into my writing. One of them is a character study of a woman named Raizl, or Rachel (depending on when in her life I'm writing about.) It started spontaneously - she just appeared a poem one day, when I was working on a difficult prompt. I liked her so much, I wrote about her the next day, and the next. Now, I never dread my "poem time," because if I have nothing pressing to write about, I get to visit her, think about her, do a little digging - and eventually share a piece of her. I've written over a dozen of these poems. Here are a few I'd like to share.

Rachel, Westchester, NY, 1963

She walks to the elementary school

to pick up the girls. Only Rebecca

is old enough to understand

the reason for the unexpected holiday.

The teachers cry.

The children stare out the windows.

At home, Rachel makes sandwiches.

She and Rebecca listen to the radi

while the twins play.

When Fannie begs to go outside,

Rachel cradles the little girl's head

against her side.

"Not today, mamaleh.

The world is just a little

too upside down."

That night,

Rachel's husband

falls asleep

holding her hand.

After he has begun to snore,

she slips from their bed,

and tiptoes to the kitchen.

They are still there:

four suitcases

behind the potatoes

and flour.

They contain canteens and cigarettes,

and space for clothing.

She has sewn a roll of bills

into each lining.

Rachel sits on the kitchen floor,

hugging her knees.

The insomnia will last

until the world rights itself.

This much, she knows.

Raizl, Föhrenwald, Bavaria, Germany, 1945

In her second week,

someone finds a slate,

and nails it to one of the last trees.

There is no chalk. Several soft stones

rest in the crooks of the roots.

The residents of the DP camp

call it "the lost and found."

It only contains names.

Raizl visits the tree once a day.

August becomes September

in a breeze.

She sleeps outside, wrapped

in a Red Cross blanket.

The stars are a comfort -

the ground softer than the barracks.

On the day she meets her future husband,

she wakes from a dream of black birds

and broken violin songs

to find him squatting beside her,

a tin cup drowning in his curled fingers.

She studies him as she drinks:

careful patches in his boots,

sponged collar of his uniform,

dark gray eyes. a few silver threads

in his muddy hair.

They spend the afternoon

teaching each other

the names of their hometowns.

Westchester. Lodz. New York. Poland.

He beams. He tells her

she would make

a beautiful American.

How they would swoon

under the charm of her tongue.

Rachel and Stella, next to the crib, 1988

Like so many mothers,

Rebecca named her daughter

in two languages: English and Jewish.

Stella and Shoshanna. Her mother

thinks Shoshanna is a mouthful

of a name for such a morsel,

but likes the way the names pair:

stars and lilies. She painted

an ocean dotted with tiny white flowers.

Rebecca put it in the nursery,

above the crib. She thinks it's a night sky.

Rachel rocks Stella for hours,

and smiles at the ceiling -

when they grow into the same language,

Rachel will whisper her secret name

into those perfect jughandle ears. Raizl. Raizl.

A name hidden in translation,

a lily among the stars.

Raizl, on her wedding day, 1952

The name on the piece of paper looks

like new breasts, or the puckered belly

after the baby - something

to practice recognizing as her own.

She has signed herself to both

this man, and his country,

this tongue. Rachel.

It seems to halt in the middle,

uncertain of its own proclamation.

In the dark,

he will call her Raizl again,

faster, until her name

sounds like hoofbeats,

like rain, like the wild, endless grass

of Poland.

2010-04-22T18:36:00.001-05:00

The Ravenna Kibbutz is a Jewish neighborhood and organization in Seattle. It looks like three houses and a couple of apartments on half of a beautiful city block full of houses (and apartments). We're talking cherry trees and tulip gardens, a cul-de-sac with a basketball hoop and plenty of parking. As a neighborhood, we hang out on the sidewalks, eat dinner at each others' houses, till communal gardens and keep our front doors open. As an organization, we run Jewish programming for Jews of all ages and stripes - from totally secular through modern Orthodox. A week's worth of events could include bowling, movie night, a bike ride and an open mic. We don't make assumptions about your politics. We argue like people who love one another. At our weekly Shabbat dinners, we say "Thank G-d and the unions for giving us the weekend."

Does this sound like a life you'd love? Check us out on the web: http://www.ravennakibbutz.org/. Our website is gorgeous, organized and chock-full of information. It can tell you what we're like, what the neighborhood is like, and some of the founding principles of the Kibbutz.

Here's what it won't tell you: we have an *entire house* open this summer. A four bedroom Craftsman with hardwood floors, a finished basement, lovely kitchen and solid backyard that looks right into the ravine for which Ravenna is named. It's a house that needs love and care, but will return your furniture-arranging and weed-whacking efforts with charm and delight.

We're looking for a group of committed individuals or a family to move into this house sometime this summer or early fall. If this sounds like an adventure, apply. Apply if you've got a group together; apply if you don't. Apply even if you're not sure. Get to know us. Share some jokes and stories. We'd love to hear from you.

The application is here: http://www.ravennakibbutz.org/application. Thanks so much for your time and attention!

In solidarity,
~Dane Kuttler

Seattle 108, or Poem-a-Day Project #105 (a revision of #102)

2010-04-14T17:55:00.001-05:00

For Jordie, and Erzi, and April

I don't know
who you carry in your name,
cousin, but the blush below your
deer-dark eyes halts me
like an unexpected kiss.

We named you halfway across
the alphabet, lest the Angel of Death
confuse the bridge of your smile
with her cheekbones.

They called your grandmother
luminescent, sparkling
and dry as wine.

When you were a baby,
she held you like a photograph
rescued from a house fire.

The last thing she ever told me
was how much she loved yellow.
We had sent tulips.
My mother had to translate
from post-stroke to ten-year-old.

You look alive when you wear yellow.

As you grew, your mother
bloomed through the trellis of your bones.
Your face became a garden
of peaceful coexistence,
of wisteria and honeysuckle
holding hands.

But my heart pauses
when it sees your picture:
those eyes. those eyes.
I'd almost forgive Death for his confusion,
if we'd given you her name.

Seattle 106, or How I Keep Myself Happy

2010-04-11T18:09:00.002-05:00

Tonight's menu:

- Roasted Beet Salad: radishes, shallots, lemon

- French String Bean Salad: white wine vinaigrette, shallots, capers

- Soup of Nettles & Peas: leeks, cream, lemon

- Sunchoke & White Bean Gratin

Seattle 105, or A Night at the Kibbutz

2010-04-06T14:19:00.003-05:00

After two seders, we were done. Done with crowds of people, done with schlepping chairs, even a little bit done with cooking for the crowds. This week has been all about reconnecting with one another - a party to watch episodes of Northern Exposure (the collective favorite rerun), lots of inter-house wandering, Tamar's matzah pizza and matzagna propelling us through Pesach.

Last night, I was resigning myself to a night at home alone, when I heard not-my-house voices in the kitchen. Went to investigate. Jim had come over to share a hookah with Sergey. Neal and Shaul just wanted to be around people. Neal hadn't eaten dinner yet - brought asparagus, brussels sprouts, tofu. I added shallots and zucchini and chopped tomatoes, made us a nice little ratatouille with roasted asparagus and tofu on the side. Much more colorful and filling than what I'd originally planned for dinner (I'd planned to eat matzah and cream cheese).

After dinner, I folded laundry while Shaul and I talked girls. Then, the lights flickered - once, then twice. Then the power went out.

Shaul and I took a walk around the neighborhood - about four or five solid blocks of darkness. We grinned. We love power outages. At Aleph, Erica and Masha and Neal were already getting cozy on the couch, candles ablaze. I remembered Gimel's gas fireplace. We trooped over to find Ilana and Sergey with their feet up, fire going, drinks full. We joined them, considered eating all the ice cream in the freezer, story-talked about other dark nights and fires.

When they did come back on, remarkably quickly, no one was ready for the lights.

Seattle 104, or Seder pt. 1

2010-03-30T12:59:00.003-05:00

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

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

I was thrilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 103.5, or The Awesome Body

2010-03-25T19:33:00.001-05:00

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

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

ROCK ON.

Seattle 103, or Today's the Day

2010-03-25T11:53:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-03-21T22:45:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

Megabus 1, or Chicago Report

2010-03-18T12:09:00.002-05:00

Remember that tendency I have to not write when I'm happy? That's my excuse for leaving you all so neglected while I was in Chicago.

I had an amazing time. Candyce and Billy Tuggle opened their South Side apartment to me, and set me up with a personal record-breaking four gigs in four nights!

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

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

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

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

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

Chicago 1, or Picture from WoWps

2010-03-16T01:38:00.002-05:00

2010 poem-a-day #69

2010-03-13T23:45:00.000-05:00

For Dee and Jo

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

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

You won't find me there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-03-12T23:57:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

I f****** did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you proud of me?”

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

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

I’m proud of me too.

Signing off,
~Dane Kuttler
Finneyfrock Slam News

Columbus 2, or WoWps Reports

2010-03-12T14:10:00.000-05:00

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

Columbus 1, or WoWps Report 1

2010-03-11T01:03:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the family responds, we respond well.

Seattle 101, or Sourdough

2010-03-10T00:04:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

Seattle 100, or poem-a-day #60

2010-03-02T03:20:00.000-05:00

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

Dear sweet, wrenched heart,

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 99, or Tales from the Teacher's Desk

2010-02-25T22:02:00.002-05:00

The Korean third-grader and I are nestled in the corner of the bookstore where World History meets Biography (out of the way of the screamy toddlers in the kids section). We've settled down with the first two Addy books, part of the American Girl series. Addy is a 9-year old girl (same age as my student), born into North Carolina slavery. The story takes place shortly before the end of the Civil War (but not too shortly - it's still summer of 1864).

I've chosen these books for a few reasons: the reading level is appropriate, and my student will identify with the main character. But I've mostly chosen them for their topic. My student, a Korean girl, spending the year in the US with her mother (so she can get a solid year of English fluency), doesn't have the same cultural lexicon and context as many of the girls in her class. A few weeks ago, as we worked through a social studies assignment, she asked me "What does this mean, 'his father was a former slave?'"

The first few chapters of Meet Addy are heavy. There are graphic descriptions of whippings, fear, and humiliation. Twenty pages in, Addy is forced to swallow a fistful of tobacco worms that she overlooked while "worming." That particular image stayed with me through my own childhood and adolescence - such a chilling, yet kid-appropriate illustration of sadistic cruelty.

After we finish the first few chapters, I assign her homework: two short essays. One: if you were Addy, would you want to run away or stay on the plantation? Why or why not? And two: You might have some big feelings while reading the Addy books. Write about how you felt while reading the first few chapters.

"How should I write about my feelings?" she asks me.

"Well," I say, "you could write about it like a diary entry. Or, if it would be easier to talk to someone, you could write me letter. Or your mom. Or Addy herself. "

She thinks about that for a minute. "Could I write a letter to white people?"

I nod. "Let me write that down for you on your assignment sheet so you don't forget that idea."

We spend the last fifteen minutes curled up in the kids section, reading fairy stories and picture books. I tell her that this isn't a reward, but an important part about learning things that upset us - it's important to take care of ourselves, go slowly, and make sure to remember to have fun and happiness. She curls up to me closer than usual, and turns the pages while I read to her.

Seattle 98, or Story Draft 1: finished!

2010-02-21T16:48:00.003-05:00

A little piece of nostalgia. My only question: is it so saccharine as to be vomitorious? Or is it just sweet enough to stomach?

Jenny Silverman stood on the back porch of the student co-op kitchen, crying onion tears into a bar mop. She scooped up some snow from the railing and pressed it against each eye, shuddering as the beginning winds of a Nor’easter snaked through her jeans and the long johns underneath. She was so not cut out for this – for the isolation of southern Vermont, or a northeast winter. She hated the constant process of layering and unlayering her clothes as she walked from one blistering steam-heated building to another, and the dark gray days that ended before classes. She most hated her roommate’s cheerfulness. Nora seemed not only not to mind the cold and dark, but to actually revel in it.

At the first sign of flurries in November, Nora had gleefully begun knitting Jenny a full winter set – hat, mittens and scarf. Nora was a champion knitter, and was famous for once having excused herself from class to get more yarn in the middle of a lecture.

“No offense or anything,” Nora had said, taking measurements of Jenny’s head as she tried to focus on Principles of Macroeconomics, “but I’m just going to assume that you didn’t bring any useful winter stuff from Los Angeles.” She finished the hat in two days, and despite her resentment at being treated like an ignorant warm-weather wuss, Jenny wore it every day. Nora had thoughtfully made ear flaps, and left ample room for what she affectionately called Jenny’s Jewfro.

Jenny yawned and knocked on the kitchen door, cursing its automatic lock. Rachel, the only other person in the kitchen, ran from her sauté pans to open it, then skittered and slid back to the stove.

“Onions are a bitch this early in the morning,” Rachel called over the hissing and spattering. “I usually keep an empty bottle of dish soap on hand and squeeze little blasts of air at my eyes when I need to clear the gas away. It’s the only thing that works.”

Jenny considered the remaining pile of onions. If she could chop as many as she had before needing her first break, she’d only need two more. Rachel left the stove, and tossed Jenny an empty soap bottle.

“Seriously, try it,” she said. “Onion duty sucks, and you’re on it for the foreseeable future, so you might as well take my advice and do what works. Look, if you blast through this pile, and we get the enchiladas set up before noon, we can make the challah together.” Rachel paused at the spice rack – a teetering, wheeled monstrosity full of disorganized boxes and jars – and reached for cumin and coriander. Jenny shook her head and went back to her cutting board. The spice rack made her OCD itch.

Glastenbury College boasted a student population of just under a thousand; there were about thirty Jews on campus, according to the yearly demographics survey. Rachel and the others who worked in the kitchen guessed there were probably fifteen to twenty others, who hadn’t checked off the box, or were too secular to consider the “religion” section. The kitchen had been founded some years earlier, as a compromise – the college wouldn’t pay for a campus rabbi, but they’d create a Jewish space on campus, and pay a few student workers to run it. For Rachel, Sasha and Avigail, this was heaven’s version of work-study.

“After all,” Avigail had explained in her light Israeli accent, “somebody offered to pay me what I’d do anyway, for my friends. How could I say no?”

Jenny and Rachel developed a rhythm as they worked. As soon as Rachel tipped a panful of cooked onions into the bathtub-sized chafing dish, Jenny was on hand and ready with a bowlful of raw ones to replace them. Rachel sang and talked to the onions as she stirred them, occasionally breaking into a familiar tune.

“Oh I wish I were an Oscar-Meyer weiner,” she sang, shaking a pan in each hand. Jenny cracked up.

“Treyf! Treyf! Oscar-Meyer has breached the perimeter and no heksher is safe!”

“Oh yeah? Guess your mom had better watch out, then!” Rachel crowed. Jenny groaned. “Your mom” jokes were staple kitchen banter, but Jenny didn’t see the appeal. Half the time, they didn’t even make sense. She picked up the empty soap bottle and squeezed it under her left eye. It worked; the single tear rolled away, and her eye stopped burning. She slid a pace to her right and turned on the battered and flour-dusted CD player to avoid further mom jokes. Avigail made crazy mixes on Thursday nights and left them for the Friday morning volunteers. Today’s first song was Prince: I wanna be your lover, quickly followed by an old-timey sounding group Jenny had never heard of. Rachel sang along with the lyrics,

“Now won’t you tell it to me

Tell it to me

Drink the corn liquor let the cocaine be

Cocaine’s gonna kill my honey dead”

“Isn’t it awesome?” Rachel yelled. Jenny laughed.

“Who are these guys?” she shouted back.

“They’re called Old Crow Medicine Show. I introduced them to Avigail sophomore year. She must’ve known I’d be here this morning to hear it.” Jenny raised her eyebrows and shook her head in the universal sign for okaaay…weirdo. Rachel caught her and laughed.

“When I was on onion duty, I had no idea why I stayed. Here I was, up to my elbows in snot and onion gas, with weird music and crazy chicks who seemed to speak more in in-jokes than in English. But I stayed – ”here, she threw her hands up, flinging a bit of onion from end of her spatula – “who knows why? But I’m glad I did.”

Jenny smiled to herself. She squeezed the soap bottle under her eyes again, and chopped the last onion. It came out perfectly diced, far from the uneven chunks of the first half. She tipped them into Rachel’s waiting pan and did a little pirouette back to her station. The cocaine song gave way to a standard woman-with-guitar number, and Jenny hummed along with the chorus as she swept the giant pile of peels into the compost bucket. She washed her knife and cutting board, and scrubbed her hands with half a lemon, as Rachel had taught her, to get rid of the onion smell.

Rachel finished the frying, and dumped all the pans into the sink. She checked the clock, then turned to Jenny.

“It’s ten thirty. What do you say we skip the dishes for now, and start the challah?” Jenny agreed, digging out the fifty pound bag of flour and the flat of eggs from the fridge. She headed to the coat-closet-turned-pantry for the rest of the ingredients. Rachel cleared off the kneading table, and opened the window a few inches. Immediately, a burst of snow blew into the kitchen. Jenny shivered.

“Come on, you polar bear! It’s freezing out there!” she called from the pantry.

“Just wait – you’ll know why I opened it when you get here,” Rachel called back. “Besides, the kneading will warm you up. It’s a nice workout for your arms and shoulders.” Jenny stepped back into the kitchen, arms laden with honey, yeast and salt. She put them all down on the kneading table and pushed back a few strands of hair, leaving a flour smudge on her forehead.

“So why, exactly, do we have to have the – ”

“Shh!” Rachel cut her off. “Listen. Do you hear them?” Jenny shut her mouth and strained to hear anything above the wind. She thought she might hear someone screaming – no, two someones. Or more. Was it just the wind? She furrowed her brow and looked questioningly at Rachel. Rachel grinned.

“It’s recess,” she explained. “You’re hearing the kids at the preschool on the other side of the fence. They’re freaking out because it’s one of the first big snows. I love listening to them while I make bread. Do you mind?”

“Aren’t they freezing?” Jenny asked, reaching for her wool sweater. She slipped it over her head, ignoring the way her hair crackled with static. Rachel shook her head.

“Nah. They wait all year for the snow. The yarn store downtown sells out of wool weeks before Christmas. I bet you every kid on that playground has a hat or a scarf or a set of mittens that somebody made for them.” She dumped a small mountain of flour on the table, made a well in the center, and started cracking eggs into it. “Measure out some warm water for the yeast, okay?” she said, nodding her head towards the recipe on the wall. Some industrious person had decided it wasn’t worth it to keep printing new copies of the bulk challah recipe, and had stenciled it straight onto the wall above the kneading table. It was signed “Anna Winters, 1994.” No one know who Anna Winters was, but the Jews of Glastenbury College ate her challah every single week. Sometimes Sasha switched the white flour recipe with whole wheat, which everyone politely ate, but the community cherished the fluffy, sweet white bread that was the mainstay of the Shabbat table.

Perhaps it was the challah that kept Jenny coming back.. Even though she paid for it with hours of onion duty, Jenny couldn’t give up challah. It was the only thing that really tasted like home, despite the fact her family’s challah always came from a bakery. Her mother preferred ahi tuna and mango salsa to brisket and kugel, but there was always a challah on Friday nights, and a bottle of Israeli wine.

Jenny mixed the yeast into the bowl of warm water and honey and set it near the stove. Rachel reached into the pile of eggs, salt, and flour, and shrieked.

“Okay, okay, Jenny, you win! Close that window before these eggs freeze to my hands and the yeast goes into hibernation.”

It took most of Jenny’s weight to pull the window down. She took off her sweater and checked on the yeast. It was bubbling and frothing; Jenny stuck her nose in the bowl for a good long whiff before she brought the bowl to Rachel. Rachel checked the progress of the yeast, and nodded for Jenny to add it to the mix. They split the mound between them and worked the dough. Rachel sang as she kneaded, a slow ballad that didn’t work at all for Jenny. It felt a little too precious, a little too goddess-of-the-bread-dough. A little too wholesome and spiritual. When Rachel finished, Jenny suggested they sing something she knew.

“Of course,” Rachel said. Immediately, Jenny’s mind went blank. She had only one thing stuck in her head, which seemed ridiculous. She told this to Rachel.

“Nonsense!” Rachel said in her faux-spiritual-leader voice. “The challah knows no bounds of ridiculousness! Sing out, sister, sing it out!”

Jenny flashed Rachel a smirk. “Okay…” she said, in a singsong you-asked-for-it-voice. And she began her song, pushing the dough to the rhythm:

“In West Philadelphia, born and raised

on the playground is where I spent most of my days

chillin out max and relaxin’ all cool

and shootin’ some b-ball outside of the school”

Rachel snorted loudly after the first few lines, but quickly joined in as they worked the dough. When they reached the end, they’d built up such a good rhythm that Rachel began the song all over again. After four rounds, the dough was ready to rise. They slid the covered bowls into the oven where it was just warmer than the kitchen and washed their hands.

“That was awesome,” said Rachel as they took a break and ate some quickly scrambled eggs. “See, that’s how stuff gets to be legend around here. I should add a line to the challah recipe – ‘Knead for four rounds of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air Rap, or until supple.’” And with that, she rose from the table, grabbed a permanent marker and made a footnote just above the windowsill, crediting “The Jenny Silverman Method”.

“How do you like them apples?” Rachel asked. “You’re a part of the kitchen history now. Someday, a gaggle of challah-making mamalehs will look at that footnote and be totally mystified by this Fresh Prince business. It’ll be great.”

Jenny studied the recipe.

“Thanks,” she said, and got up to clear their plates. Rachel hated washing dishes, but Jenny liked the meditative nature of the slowly dwindling pile. They already knew this about each other. Rachel went to start chopping peppers and garlic for the next round of enchilada prep. Jenny settled in at the sink. Without fully realizing it, she began humming a tune she’d learned from Hebrew school back in LA, a three-part round with a soft, soothing melody. As her scrubbing got more vigorous, she began to sing the words, louder:

“elu finu malay shira kayam – let us have songs to fill our mouths as full as the sea.”

Jenny was so deep in the dishes she didn’t hear Rachel join the song until they’d sung a few rounds. As Jenny stacked the last of the clean onion pans, their voices found each other, adjusted the tuning slightly, and kept going. They didn’t look at each other – Jenny began to set the table for dinner and boiling water for rice, and Rachel kept chopping. Neither of them stopped singing when they heard the door open, but then they heard a voice.

“Um, excuse me? I don’t mean to interrupt, but they said this was the Jewish kitchen? And I was looking for Shabbat dinner? Am I in the right place?” A trembling freshman in thick-soled boots and a bright red pea coat stood in the doorway.

“Of course you are,” said Rachel, wiping her hands on her apron and walking to the newcomer. “What’s your name, mameleh? I’m Rachel.”

“I’m Sarah,” said the woman, smiling. She looked over at Jenny, “Let me guess – you’re Leah, or Rebecca?” Jenny grinned over the pile of dishes.

“Actually, that’s Jenny Silverman,” said Rachel. “Dinner’s not for a few hours, but have you come to help out?”

“I heard that’s the deal,” said Sarah. “What can I do?”

Rachel looked around the kitchen, and then at Jenny, who was folding napkins. “You know what?” she said. “I’m going to put you with Jenny. If you like working here, you can come back next week and she’ll show you how everything goes. She’s been waiting for someone to teach. Is that okay with you, Jenny?”

Jenny looked up. “Yeah, sure! Here, let me get you an apron and we can take a tour of the kitchen.” She showed Sarah the coat hooks, and grabbed a green apron with the words “Challah Back” scrawled in gold fabric paint across the front. “You can start by helping me get silverware out of the pantry. I’m afraid there’s not much cooking left this week, but next week there will be. Can you get here at 8 in the morning?”

“I think so,” said Sarah. “I’d really like to help. I miss cooking. And Jews. I didn’t think I’d miss Jews so much, since I came from a tiny town that had very few, but I do. Jews and sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” Jenny asked, heaping a serving tray with forks. “Where are you from?”

“Georgia,” said Sarah. “Just outside Decatur.”

“Oh man,” said Jenny. “No wonder your coat looked so new!” Sarah giggled.

“No kidding! I can’t stand the cold up here! Where are you from?”

“LA,” said Jenny. The two exchanged a knowing look. Rachel stuck her head into the pantry asked them to help glaze the challahs. Sarah looked dazzled by the dozen loaves, glistening with eggs and sesame seeds. Jenny finished the tour, skipping over the onion bins – there’d be time for that next week.

Seattle 97, or Poem-a-Day Project #48, or Choir

2010-02-18T02:34:00.005-05:00

When I auditioned for the choir, I told her I was an alto. I'd been singing alto for years, like a pearl diver, always reaching for the next low note. Altos are salt-of-the-earth singers - they don't get much credit, and they don't begrudge their role in making the sopranos sound good. I never really wanted to be a soprano again. Alto parts are more complex. They create depth, texture, the working gears of any choral piece. Besides, low voices are sexier than high voices. Right?

I was glad she was a no-nonsense kind of director. I respect that. She'd do what was best for the group and the sound, and hang people's egos out to dry. Halfway through the audition, she told me "You may be an alto, but your voice is something else altogether. Try the mezzo part." I did. She nodded, pleased.

She had to talk me into singing soprano. I hadn't hit a high G since high school (which is not a very high note at all, in the scheme of things.) I had to admit she was right about my voice - it gained a solidity as it climbed, a consistency I had to work hard to achieve in my lower register.

Six, seven rehearsals into the concert season, and I was in love with being a soprano. To hell with the fact that the altos work harder - singing these lines was fun in a way I'd completely forgotten. It seemed like so much joy for so little effort. For the first time awhile, I began to take pride in what my voice could do, instead of focusing on what it couldn't. I formed a connection with the parts, looked forward to pieces that hit the "sweet spot" of my range - the two or three notes that resonate through my whole body. Those notes are higher than I've sung regularly in years.

But tonight, at rehearsal, out of nowhere, she called me to the front and asked if I'd mind singing with the altos, who needed some strength, a little oomph and chutzpah. I thought she meant one song. I was happy to visit and sing along, letting my voice bounce along the low As and Gs I hadn't sung in awhile. But when I turned back to the soprano section at the end of the piece, she asked me what I was doing. She meant to switch me permanently.

After rehearsal, I approached her nearly in tears. It had been a long and awful day (prior to rehearsal) and I knew my reaction was way out of proportion, but I stammered my way through an explanation. Her answer was simple: the altos needed a stronger, more commanding voice. Mine was one of the most versatile in the women's section. She liked the blend. Of course, if I absolutely refused, there was someone else who could do it, but she liked my sound the best...

And I've always been a choir kid. I've always valued blend and balance and the good of the group (when in choir - I enjoy a good solo and lead when I'm singing casually, no doubt). If the director thinks we sound better when I sing alto, I don't want to argue. I want the group to be the best it can be.

But I'm still crushed, little prima donna that I am. So I did what I do - I vented to friends (most of whom had far bigger and more important things on their minds) and then I went and wrote poems about it.

On Becoming an Alto
after conversations with L. Goldensher and M. P. Graham

1. Blend

When you have become accustomed
to being blossom,
the sonorous face
of the choir,
all tendril and
melody,

to make your graceful return
to being soil,
to being nurture
and bolster, all
gears and roots
and errant tricky
stones

requires a bit of a funeral.

2. The Viola Player Who Sings Soprano

When the instrument you carry
changes every chord
like a fish changes the ocean,
and the instrument built inside you
is designed to float,
can you escape your viola swimmer’s arms
and rest easy in the melody, in the descant,
in the lightest part of the music
while the lower voices make things move?

And when you have learned
to love the playful joy
of floating, face to the sun,
how do you
conjure enough desperation
to start swimming again?

Seattle 96, or Excerpt from the Seattle Jewish Chorale Concert Program

2010-02-16T21:00:00.002-05:00

Notes on "Durme Durme"
By Dane Kuttler

As a Jewish choir, we pride ourselves on learning music in four different Jewish languages: Hebrew, English, Yiddish and Ladino. Of the four, Ladino, a synthesis of Spanish and Hebrew, has the fewest speakers. Why? In 1492, all Jews were expelled from Spain. Those who stayed were forced to publicly convert to Catholicism. It makes sense, then, that some of the language survived in lullabies - songs that are sung at night, quietly, away from the suspicions of the street.

Towards the middle of Durme Durme, the sopranos sing a slightly dissonant harmony, creating tension with the steady, rocking melody. I can only imagine that this musical choice is a reference to the suffering of the Jews who stayed in Spain, the marranos and conversos who hid their Judaism in dark, quiet places. To this day, there are families that light candles in their basements on Friday nights without knowing why - it's just tradition, passed down by families too afraid to reveal their true identities to their children.

When you listen to Durme Durme, imagine the desperation of a people hiding in plain sight, trying to preserve a culture for which they could be killed. Imagine the mother rocking her child to sleep, praying he remembers the words, but not well enough to repeat them. Imagine the strength this kind of resistance requires. And ask yourself: who today sings forbidden songs in the dark and quiet?

Seattle 95 or, File Under: Things To Remember

2010-02-15T16:36:00.000-05:00

“Touch, taste, sight, smell, hearing…memory. While Gentiles experience and process the world through the traditional senses, and use memory only as a second-order means of interpreting events, for Jews memory is no less primary than the prick of a pin, or its silver glimmer, or the taste of the blood it pulls from the finger.

The Jew is pricked by a pin and remembers other pins. It is only by tracing the pinprick back to other pinpricks – when his mother tried to fix his sleeve while his arm was still in it, when his grandfather’s fingers fell asleep while stroking his great-grandfather’s damp forehead, when Abraham tested the knife point to be sure Isaac would feel no pain – that the Jew is able to know why it hurts.

When a Jew encounters a pin, he asks: What does it remember like?”

~ Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated (p. 198.)