Seattle 1, or Arrival

I'm so inexplicably glad to be here. Last time I visited Seattle, I had a great time, but left with a kind of certainty that I didn't want to live here. But something's changed. I'm not sure what.

My father pointed out the other day that I seek relationships that involve conflict. I wonder if that was my issue with Minneapolis - I could see myself getting lazy there.

Seattle, on the other hand, has no shortage of conflict. Plus, I'm going to a writing class on Monday night specially for queer performance poets. How amazing is that?

More later.

Montana 1, or Hi From The Train!

The advantage to being stopped for refueling is that there's internet! Yay!

I've discovered that train travel is by far my very favorite kind. I woke up at 6:15 this morning, after a night of cat napping, and stared out the window for a good hour and a half, completely riveted at the landscape changing subtly under the shifting sun.

And I befriended a photographer. And some small children. And apparently, many many wedding guests. Olympia, WA, get ready to be wedding-ed out.

Minneapolis 4, or In Which I Become Famous

"...a wild-haired poet named Dane took the fiery crowd at Mercury on a trip to Israel, hushed them with her quiet words, and then departed with the simple appreciation of a small yellow flower."

Found: http://www.thedailypage.com/daily/article.php?article=23449

Tonight, I leave for Seattle on my first long-distance train ride. How awesome is that? I'll post when I get there!

Minneapolis 3, or Things Of A Puzzling Nature

Here's a haiku I wrote today:

Minneapolis:
You rock so hard on paper.
Why don't I love you?

That pretty much sums up everything I've felt here. All the components for an Excellent Living Place are here: huge farmer's market, secure lefty politics, good poets, winter, good public transportation and the beautiful lakes/art/independent bookstores/etc. Tonight, I gave my feature at the charming Kieran's Irish Pub, and was warmly received by all 12 people. They even bought merchandise! I think I sold five or six books, and a fistful of bumper stickers. Someone even paid with a two dollar bill! I don't remember the last time I saw one of those.

Dear Minneapolis,
Where's the chemistry? I was feeling more groovy with Chicago than with you, and let me tell you, I did not expect to feel that. We've got two more days. Let's try to make this work, okay?
Tentative love,
~Dane

Minneapolis 2, or A Quick Pic

Hey, check it out! A poet named Evan got a picture of me being a poet! (For the record, the shirt reads, "Don't Touch My Hair!" and I got it here. The link shows what's on the back of the shirt. I got so many compliments on it, and it led me to meet many people with awesome hair (as well as a bunch of buzzed and bald folks who think there should be a "Yes, I'm bald, no you can't rub my head" shirt.) I should also point out that I wasn't having a great hair night on the night this was taken.

This is me "sacrificing", by the way. In every poetry slam, there is one poet who performs without being part of the competition, to warm up the judges. They call it the sacrificial poet. I got to sacrifice twice, in addition to reading at multiple open mics and competing in two side slams for unaffiliated poets (did horribly in both of them). I love sacrificing, though - all the audience and none of the pressure!

Minneapolis 1, or On Being A Guest

In my last post, I called poets my mishpacha, my family. In less than a week, I've added a new stop to my trip (Salt Lake City, Utah), found places to stay in Denver/Boulder and Atlanta, shared heartbreak and history with new friends and renewed friendships that began five months ago in Detroit, or a year ago in Austin.

Poetry and poets have brought me to yet another place I'd have never traveled to otherwise, and given me the security I need to be traveling for so long.

And here I am in Minneapolis, with my other mishpacha. The ones I'm connected to by blood and legalities. The other group of people in my life that have offered me everything I could possibly want with hardly a request to motivate them. I love this family, and, like the poets, I only get to see them once a year.

So why do I feel kind of lonely right now?

B&T are about halfway between my and my parents' ages, and have two small kids. The kids don't know me well enough to really want to play with me yet - the little one shies away when i bend down to talk to him, and the big one just gets quiet and big-eyed. B&T won't let me do dishes. Yet, they're parents of young kids, so we don't really get to talk without interruption. I feel like I'm just creating more work for them, when I wish I could just jump into their rhythm and do dishes, help the kids with their baths, etc. And yet, B&T are treating me like more of a grown-up than anyone else in my family and giving me plenty of space and resources. And I appreciate that, too.

Not for the first time, I wish I wasn't traveling alone.

In other news, I sold two books at Nationals, and gave a whole bunch away. This makes me happy.

(M&P, you haven't seen this book. I didn't want to show it to you because I thought some of the poems in it would upset you, which is kind of dumb, seeing as you have yet to faint away in despair at any of my work. Ask Mom to show it to you, if you like.)

In other other news, I have a professional website now. Check it out! All the amazing photography is courtesy of my sister, who will doubtlessly one day be one of the world's most elite paparazzi.

Madison 3, or The Departure Post

The poets brought me here, and it's poets who will help me leave. The Minneapolis team was kind enough to offer me a ride out, which leaves in a few minutes.

Nationals was like taking a bath of really hot and really cold water that don't quite ever mix. Some parts of it were magical, and beautiful and full of writing prompts, and other parts made me feel like my insides were breaking. Rachel McKibbens is my new favorite poet. I have places to stay in every city I'm traveling to, officially. There's a new stop on the tour: Salt Lake City, Utah.

Poets, you are mishpacha, every one of you.

Madison 2, or A New Poem That Has Come Out of Nats

Guidebook for My Daughter

Don't be afraid to cook extravagant meals on nights when you're home alone.
Feel safe when you see spiders, for they are your kin.
Always use more hot sauce than anyone else at the table.
Push your voice to its farthest depths and hold it there until it stops struggling.
Smoke gas station cigarettes.
Paint a picture of who you want to be at eighty years old. Now draw a halo over it.
Wear boys' underwear and roll your button-downs past your elbows.
Reclaim Mozart and Mendelssohn, for they too are your kin.
Forgive your mama, for she knows not what she does. Tell her you will still brush her hair at night when you come back to visit.

Learn to find the pockets of home in foreign tongues.
Sing hymns like spiderwebs and bequeath them to star-laced hurricanes.
Don't hide when the lightning strikes.
Walk through the forests like barefoot thunder;
call on your grandmothers before you plead with their gods.
Test the limits of your skin
with safety pins and too much sunshine.

Fuck on your own terms, even if that means
you have to seduce him,
learn the weak places on every human body just in case,
let your body dictate boundaries like a heel
dragging through dirt to make a finish line and tell him:
this is where you stop.
Learn to speak eyebrows and fingertips,
use questions like chisels.
Carve those around you until you fit.
Stand on two feet when you kiss
your first lover so you can catch her
when she falls for you. Because you,
my daughter, you are irresistible.

Madison 1, or The Arrival Post

I made it to Nationals courtesy of the Ozark team, which picked me up in the middle of a gigantic lightning storm at O'hare International Airport, and then fed me and gave me a nice cool place to stay for the night before heading out to Madison this morning. Already, I'm crazy excited - there are good poets everywhere, like a family reunion of prophets and jesters.

More later!

Chicago 2, or Days and Knights in Gotham

I once commented on this blog that I don't write much when I'm having a good time. I hope you all remembered this, and have subsequently rejoiced at the lack of updates. Tonight, I'm heading out towards Madison with the slam team from the Ozarks, who are driving up from Arkansas today, and swinging through Chicago tonight. But before that, my sister is taking me to an American Tribal Style bellydance class, which should be excellent (my teacher, Donna Mejia, has great respect for ATS, therefore, it must be awesome).

My sister lives in a dorm that's more like a pseudo studio. The ceilings are very high, which is neat, and the place is divided into two sections. One section contains just two beds and three desks, for Liora and her roomate. Then, the second section, which is divided off from the first, contains a galley kitchen, a bathroom right across from it, and a loft bed above the bathroom, where I'm sleeping. Quite luxurious for someone who was prepared to sleep on the floor!

Liora's been a most excellent host - far better than I ever did in Prague or Northampton, I'm sure. She got me free entrance to the Chicago History Museum, where she works, and I spent the better part of a day happily entranced by their exhibits. I especially enjoyed their attention the riots in '68, and the Haymarket riot. I realized Chicago has been really groundbreaking in terms of radical politics. I also stared at a four-paneled painting titled "Leather Night at the Gold Coast" for at least half an hour.

The picture, which depicts five youngish men outside a 70s gay bar, was mounted on the outside walls of the actual Gold Coast club in Chicago, and painted by the boyfriend of the owner of the club. After the club was raided, a police officer suggested to the owner that having a woman in the picture would deter future raids. The artist did add a woman, who now hovers between two of the men. Her legs are hidden behind a motorcycle, giving her the impression of a ghost. It's a fantastic piece of queer history, and seeing it mounted on the wall of such a mainstream museum (whose focus, while queer-friendly, is not queer-specific) felt triumphant.

Then, Liora took me to see Dark Knight, which I initially protested, but I'm glad we went. I'm not an action movie person, but I enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance as much as the next guy. But the best part was walking out of the movie towards the big touristy Navy Pier, and realizing that Chicago IS Gotham, Batman's fictional home. I'd always been told it was New York, but I think that might be the New York ego at work, rather than a reflection of the city's vibe.

In the middle of it all, I miss her. C haphazardly sauntered into my life back in June, and despite knowing how soon I was leaving, we decided to let ourselves fall in love anyway. There are no promises, no vows, no future. But I love her as much as I did last week, and I miss her from the forefront of my thoughts to the pit of my stomach. We talk almost every day. She tells me what she remembers from her trips to Chicago: vegan cafes and youth activism and street art, and I wish she were here. It's always easier to be brave and adventurous with someone like her around.

And then there was the food. Oych, have we eaten well. From fancy, creative sushi to Chicago's famous deep dish pizza, I've eaten like I'm preparing for hibernation. I'd write more about the food, but there's so much more to talk about...

...like photos. I had asked Liora if she would be willing to take some pictures of me to put on a new, professional website I'm working on. She happily obliged, and we took pictures in the art studio on the 17th floor of her building, and in Millennium Park just a few blocks away.

Finally, I'd like to talk about the poetry. Last night, I went to the Green Mill, the home and beginnings of the slam, where Marc Smith, the construction worker that invented the slam format, still hosts the show. I did horribly in the slam because of a few doozy judges, but I was in the company of several excellent poets who scored badly, so I didn't mind at all. The crowd is a tough one in Chicago - they heckle the performers as though they were at a dog fight instead of a poetry reading. But I know that the poets with the roughest exteriors are usually the sweetest ones underneath, so it didn't faze me much. Additionally, I met and found several poets I already knew who are heading to Madison tomorrow, and they were as kind as anything.

See you in Madison!