Seattle 37, On Still Being A Child

Homesickness comes unexpected, after an evening of arranging the terrible furniture, organizing the kitchen, and flattening the cardboard boxes we all dumped by the back door. My parents have visited my sister this weekend - we're so scattered now - and I want them here. I'm so much more a child than some of my fellow kibbutznikim (with good reason - I'm also almost a decade younger than some of them), so quietly wanting my parents to come, appraise, approve. Yes, this is a beautiful life you're building, Dandoolina. Even with terrible furniture.

Anne Lamott wrote that in the aftermath of her father's death, every one of her accomplishments now feels like performing some spectacular, perfect gymnastic routine to an empty auditorium. Suddenly, looking at the pictures they've sent from Chicago - my mother, thick and radiant, some maternal hunger momentarily sated, my father, grayer, looking exhausted, his smile lines deeper and somehow more fittingly handsome than my memory's picture of him - I feel their absence like a missed meal. Hungry, craving them, craving the words I only want from them. Oh, yes, Daneydoo. What a beautiful life you're building.

When I say these things to myself, the words ring more hollow than a single pair of hands in an empty auditorium. I think this, more than anything else, is what makes me still a child.

Seattle 36, or Snapshots

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I'm all moved into the newest Kibbutz house, house Gimmel. Moving in was sweet - Jenny, an old college friend, happened to be on her own soul searching cross country roadtrip, and arrived with her fellow road warrior, Fritz, in time to schlep my boxes down the street. With their help, and that of my doppelganger compatriot, Dain, I was moved in less than five hours. With lots of breaks for food.

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Now that all our friends know we have a house to fill, Gimmel has become a local dumping ground for stuff our friends don't want. We've acquired a laundry basket full of food, a coffee grinder, a microwave, an armload of mismatched dishes, a couple of coffee tables...the list grows as I breathe. Our first house meeting is tomorrow, and hopefully, Where To Put It all is on the agenda. Not that there's a lack of space, mind you - the house is large, beautiful, spacious and full of light. There are skylights in every room but the bathroom.

At night, the moon comes through mine and paints a beautiful shadow on my bedroom wall, all evergreen silhouette and fairy flowers.

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Three empty bottles of Fat Tire beer, each holding a Shabbat candle, in my window.

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All of my postcards from the Prague Museum of Communism, artfully arranged on my walls and door.

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My sister's artwork on my walls, making the place look like home.

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The coming back from the gay pride parade, glitter and confetti clinging to my clothes. I'm smiling despite myself. I'm so sick of Pride, of the complacency it brings, but it is nice to see "the family" all out and about in our feathers and finery. There are a couple of kids from work I wish I could bring, sneak them down, and watch their eyes grow big, maybe whisper to them "Honey, if you hang on and make it through the next twelve years, this is what will meet you on the other side. And they're worth waiting for."

Below: my favorite picture from pride, found on google, source unknown:

Seattle 35, or New Poem for Pride Month - from Iwps preliminary

To the new parents at the PFLAG meeting:

Mary Oliver said “you do not have to be good.”
She was right. You do not have to march on your knees in a pride parade;
nor do you have to invite their lovers to your funerals,
or remember them on their birthdays.

If you are the parent of a queer child,
you will not be punished for casting them out.
No one will arrest you for the exorcisms or threats,
no one will fault you for your shame.

If you have a god, surely you will find
some way to make peace with these decisions.

You can tell yourself
that your children will end up in the hell they deserve,
or that it’s just a phase,
or that you are willing to help them get better.
Whatever you tell yourself about this, do not call it good.

If it helps to know,
many of our parents have chosen to be good, to
practice the art of loving
the way they once did violin, or fishing, or cursive.
If you choose this path, have patience.
You will not be good, at first.

Your children may not thank you for the effort.
You may remember that they also
did not thank you for changing their diapers.

Practice love with the same care
with which you once practiced holding a plastic doll
or a paper sack of flour in anticipation of their arrival.
Protective. Caring.
The feel of a fontanel under your fingertips.

We are still your babies.
Remembering this is crucial to your practice.

If you should find yourself crying,
screaming red and utterly confused,
remember that this is normal.
Remember their births,
how they came crying,
screaming red,
betrayal on their faces.

Remember what you said:
welcome to this knifepoint asphalt world, sapling.
I am your gardener.
I'm here to help you grow.

Seattle 34, or Post-Wednesday One-liner

Last night was a preliminary slam for IWps, the Individual World Poetry Slam, and I took second place. I attended last year's IWps in Charlotte, NC, and had a fabulous time.

And now I'm a finalist to become Seattle's representative. Sometime after Nationals, in August, I'll compete against seven other people, including some of my mentors. Photos to follow!

Seattle 33, or Slam Photo from last week

I didn't actually slam last week, because it was a Cover Slam, where the contenders don't read their own work, but that of poets they admire. Normally, I would be really into participating, but an old mentor was in town from New York, and I wanted a chance to read something of mine so she could see how swashbucklingly cool I've become. Photo credit, as always, to Andi Burk.

Seattle 32, or Dane's In The Newspaper!!

Czech it out! The Seattle Times Real Estate Section has an article about the kibbutz! There's pictures! And video! If you ever wanted to see where and how I live these days, this article is about as good as it gets.

Seattle 31, or Happiness

I love this picture. Actually, I just really love this shirt. Credit, as always, to Andi Burk.

The birthday celebrations and gifts have begun - this week, my whole family pooled together to help me buy a beautiful bed, after so many months of a small mattress on the floor. It'll get assembled when I move to the new Kibbutz house down the street on Monday. From my grandmother and her husband, a set of sheets so soft they make my bed look and feel like a cloud. They have said a quilt is on its way. I feel like the world's luckiest swan, or something.

Tonight, I came home from a long, rough shift to find a package waiting for me from my grandparents in Tenafly: sweet things, rich things, salty things, like a slice of their kitchen sent via parcel post. Tucked inside, a card, with a long rhyming poem, as is family birthday custom. With two graduations and two June birthdays, their study must've been a regular writers' den! I read the poem out loud to my listening housemates, who looked admiringly at the food (I've promised a feast this weekend!), and laughed with me, and pretended not to notice when I got choked up towards the end.

And the days are long now, the last stretches of sun reaching far past nine o'clock. We, the city-dwellers are soaking it in and storing it for the rainy season.

Seattle 30, or Farmer's Market and Stuff

First of all, has anyone noticed the formatting changes? I'm still futzing around with colors, but I think I like it.

Today's farmer's market haul included: garlic scapes, swiss chard, some little baby zucchinis, four beautiful end-of-first-harvest leeks (no more till late August!) and some Jade sauce, which is from a little local vendor and contains everything you could possibly need to make the most delicious Thai curry in the world.

Then, a stop at Whole Foods for some Romano and kalamata olives, and Shaul (my farmer's market buddy) and I headed back to the kibbutz for a cooking lesson. We made roasted leeks, and pasta with sauteez zucchini and olives and cheese. Lovely.

Also, at the market, there's a drum circle that happens every week - anywhere from five to fifteen or twenty drummers in a small public park at the head of the market. This week, I finally got the nerve to ask them if I could join in, and they didn't break time, just nodded towards which drum I should use, and I jumped right in. I drummed until my hands were sore, falling easy into the beat, finding the spaces I could fill, happy and smiling at the women who looked like they were too shy to dance, at the boy who grabbed a maraca and jumped around.

I saw three women with a toddler, and each were trying to get the little girl to dance. "Enough!" I wanted to shout at them. "Dance for yourselves, because you want to dance and are too scared of what other people will think, so you're trying to pass it off as a good opportunity for your little girl. She's never going to want to dance unless you show her how to do it, dancing for yourselves, with joy."

Instead, I shifted my attention to the gray-haired woman with skin the color of water-soaked wood, met her eyes with a smile, and sped up the beat a little. She danced like an old woman, with small movements, but precise and perfectly timed. She flirted with the drum circle with an amused smile on her face - look at all the white folks playing Mediterranean beats! - and kept pace perfectly for a few minutes, before settling down to shuffle towards the market.

Seattle 29, or Another Poem from the new book

Bakery #6

In exchange for the
burnt loaves of sourdough,
Gabe and I offer to stack
the 4 cords before it rains.
It's my birthday.
There is oak dust up my nose,
bluegrass coming through the window.

Bakery #2

Matthew slips the week's
poem into each paper bag.
It is not very good.
He writes too much like a baker
who always wanted to sing jazz
or never have children.
Matthew's bread tastes like
river rocks, calluses, and sunshine.

Bakery #328

Customers shuffle in
from twenty below, &
watch the snow evaporate
from their boots.
Linda and Matthew are panting.
They take breaks by the door,
kiss by the woodpile.
New customers leave
with flour handprints
on their shoulder blades.
It's Friday.

Seattle 28: Soon To Be Released

Yes, I know it's blurry. Click on it, and you should see a large, clear image. This is the tentative cover for my new book - first time I've ever done my own cover art.



It's almost all short pieces, which is unusual for me - there's only one piece in there I'd consider "slammy," and I've never slammed it before. Anyway, here's one of the pieces. I wrote the first draft during National Poetry Writing Month, when I was doing the 30 poems/30 days challenge.

comfort

hardwood, sweet pea, woodsmoke, soup,
pickle brine, stubble, sourdough,
eggs, lake water, roots, windows,
fog, raspberry, suede,
river rock, rope, aloe, licorice,
tea, breast, coffee bean, microphone,
wool, red, knife, coals, strings,
paper, cotton, lemon, wine,
alto, apple, coffee, pulse