Columbus 1, or Quick Notes from Slamtown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 154, or Farewells: The Beginning

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

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

The resultant menu?

- Pasta with garlic butter and sauteed greens

- Warm beet salad with tahini-lemon dressing

- Balsamic-roasted carrots

- Cocounut-red-curry sunchoke gratin

- Stewed black beans with garlic and tomatoes

- Homemade whole wheat bread

- Thick, fudgy brownies with dried cherries and caramel sauce

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

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

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

And so begins the au revoir to Seattle...

Seattle 153, or Some Catchup on that Shaggy Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle 152, or Voteformevoteforme!

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

Seattle 151, or Freude

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe next year."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freude. Joy.

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

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

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

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.