New Jersey 2, or Almost Gone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Reunion