So, the one thing about being a slam poet that has been continually hard for me is accepting that (as is often pointed out by hosts) the points aren’t always the point. It is difficult for me sometimes to see what garnered another poem higher scores from the judges than the ones they awarded my poem- I do not consider myself “the best poet”, or “better than others” by any means, but I know the careful architecture of my poems- the symbols and the layers, the ways I choose to get from point a to point b, the thoughtful word choice when it comes to both meaning and emotional mouthfeel and rhythm… sometimes I feel thwarted. A lot of the time, I feel thwarted, frustrated with myself or with the audience or with other poets– I take it way too hard.
Tonight was not one of those nights. I performed Aphasia first round, because I was nervous and I’ve discovered it’s a poem that is the perfect place for me to throw my nervous energy and come out winning, and though it wasn’t the best performance of it I’ve done- the crowd was with me, and for the most part, I was on. I performed It is Hard. second round, because it’s probably my second highest scoring piece after Aphasia, and I had a chance to make the third round. It was also important to me to perform a poem that was a little less fluffy and superficial and gimmicky, to have the audience know that I had important things to say, too. The poem is 99% memorized, but I have stumbled every time I go up without paper, so I brought it with me, and (more likely because I worked retail all December rather than rehearsing my poems) stumbled a little bit in the beginning before I found my stride.
There was a moment in the poem where I stepped out of my consciousness of my performance of the poem, though the words were still coming out of my mouth at the right speed, with the right emotions, and at the right volumes and cadence. In that moment I looked at the whole bar full of people and saw everyone looking at me, completely frozen, and completely silent, even the bartender. And I knew I’d done the poem justice, and myself too. The audience was rapt, and in the moment with me and the poem- it was the silence of being heard properly, and honestly, the scores mean nothing compared to that.
And yeah, I was bummed when I didn’t score highly enough against the other (very talented) poets to compete in the third round. I wanted to do my new poem about love and snow, but it can wait until I can do that poem a little bit more justice, too. Ultimately, tonight was very good in my book.
The new year is already not without its fits and starts, but the idea, at the moment, is to keep a sense of humor, wear a good mask, belt it out, and keep the party rolling.
New Year’s Resolutions:
0. Get a “real” job.
1. Get the first chapbook done (printed and all that good stuff) by Valentine’s Day.
2. Score in the top three at the Erotic Slam on Valentine’s Day.
3. Get a new item up on Etsy weekly.
4. Figure out a better system for getting photo work on Etsy done quickly.
5. Keep reading at least a book a month, and keep track of what I’ve read.
6. Get back to writing letters regularly- did a pretty good job of it this year, would like to expand upon it in 2010.
7. Get a schedule planned for MN Mic posts and deadlines for pieces.
I started bringing a tripod with me to events I’m performing at, because I need to get *any* video of myself performing, if I want to be able to apply for spoken word grants. Here’s a video from the SlamMN! slam in Minneapolis this past month- obviously still some things to work on, but getting better:
Someone I met on the train this summer wrote to me about getting into spoken word, and asked for performance advice. As I’ve said a number of times, performance is my “most improved” quality, and yet definitely the quality that I need to improve even more. It’s good sometimes, though, to write these things out and know exactly what one is trying to do, and how they’re trying to do it.
“Here are some different ways to work on it.
1. Practice in front of a mirror- figure out if there are some parts of the piece that want specific gestures- it is both easier to remember your performance and remember the piece if you have specific gestures that go with specific parts of the poem. Some people make little home videos of their performances, I make audio recordings just using my laptop just to hear it and feel like I understand what’s going on with vocal qualities- it’s weird and uncomfortable to watch/listen to yourself sometimes, though, so mirrors are good to watch yourself, but sometimes it’s good to actually *hear* what you’re doing.
2. Perform at open mics- try the pieces out on friends, get to the point where any embarrassment or nerves you have are something you are used to. It might not go away- mine has lessened greatly over time, but I still have huge nerves sometimes- I’m just so used to it, I’m the only one who knows it anymore. Performing your pieces in front of friends or at open mics also gets you used to the ways people might respond to your work- if you have something in there that’s funny and you didn’t know it, you will learn how to time yourself properly to roll off the joke without letting audience laughter make your next line hard to hear (Start too soon, and the audience is going to be hesitant to respond again, for fear they will miss more of your piece, wait too long, you’re going to lose their energy and feel unnatural.)
3. Mutter your pieces to yourself all the time- the closer they are to memorized, the more you’re going to be able to connect them to the audience and feel comfortable performing them. I’ve only got one piece *completely* memorized, because I’m not good at memorizing, but the more memorized I have a piece the better I perform it. I’m also not embarrassed to bring paper up on stage- I’m personally going to perform better with my poem in hand than I will getting up on stage half-afraid I’m going to forget something.
4. Do a close reading of your writing, and think about the way the words sound and the meanings they have, and how the different ways you say words gives them different meanings. I have a couple of poems that have the word “bruises” in them, and in one I say it offhanded and nonchalant, with no specific emphasis, because it’s about being tough. In the other poem, it’s about domestic violence, and I emphasize both the “br” sound, letting it sort of fight its way between my lips and the “oo” sound, to give it an almost hurt quality.
a) Think about the rhythms you establish in your writing, and how much you want to use them- if you write a lot of rhymey poetry with a really easily identifyable meter (more hiphoppy sounding), the rhyme and meter will keep the pace going well and keep the audience engaged with the pace, but too much of that and they lose the meaning of the words and the emotional flow of the piece. On the other hand, a free form piece with a conversational tone is much easier to understand and connect with the story, but the times when rhyme and meter (or other qualities like consonance, sibilance, and assonance) are present, they should be emphasized to give the audience a better connection with the piece as a poetic piece and not just a random speech.
b) Think about the words and lines in your writing that are the most important to the piece- think about how you will do them justice without going into complete theatricality. The goal of doing readings or performances of written pieces is *not* to somehow read them without putting your mark on them- there is no unmarked reading as if a person had picked up a book and were reading the words with their own internal impressions- a live performance of a piece with no emotion or emphasis is not blank- it *strips* any existing emotions from the writing.
5. Not every word or line needs a gesture. It’s going to feel unnatural, but when you perform your piece- unless it’s really big and crazy, you want to be very still. Watch for rocking back and forth on your feet, either foot to foot or heel to toe or bouncing. Know what your arms are doing- if you’re not doing an intended gesture, you need your arms to be *still*.
6. Don’t worry about it too much. You’re going to mess up sometimes. You’re going to trip over words, you might forget a line or forget a gesture. I forgot the last 6 lines of my favorite poem at a national competition on stage in front of some of the top poets in the country. It sucks, you feel bad for a little while, but it’s okay, especially if you go on and finish with grace. Try not to freak out on stage or swear or make a show of the fact that you’ve messed up- 90% of the time, no one will know it except for you, and the other 10% of the time, you’re really the only person who will be disappointed- the more graceful you are about your mistakes, the better things will go. When you’ve messed up, make sure you perform in front of audiences as soon as possible again. If you compete in a poetry slam? The judges will not necessarily like your work as much as it is deserved- it’s okay. There are other people in the audience, and even without scorecards they count just as much as any judge. The audience might LOVE your poem, but the judges might not give you a great score- it’s okay. Not every poem is for every person out there.
7. Finally, make friends with other performers. Go to workshops and invite people to your dorm or apartment or house to practice with you. Take turns giving each other constructive feedback- don’t try to *change* each others’ poems, but try to see what options there are and take criticism willingly- try out what people suggest you to do, even if you don’t think it will work- be open to changing what you’re doing.”
I added the photograph of Dax’s vintage suitcase puppet-set to my Etsy with a piece of fiction just now. Ta daaaaa!
When I get stuck, not being able to write, I often take my favorite photographs as inspiration pieces to write from- rarely anything but fiction comes from this, but often it draws from moments in reality, takes them into that strange little cinema in my head and animates them. This was an extreme version of that.
Yesterday my A-List hit the City Pages, and I stayed up a bit late, writing a really moody poem that requires a lot of work, but I feel like I want to play with it. As per usual, the poem is chock full of recurring symbolism, and is easily too dense and too in the language of my inner skull to work on stage, but I may try it anyway. I compete this coming Tuesday at Kieran’s, but I’m up against Khary, Wonder Dave, Cynthia, Shane Hawley, and Syd, so I’m not too hopeful of my chances.
I appear in Warren Ellis’s rollcall type “Friday Telescreen 2009″, purely by following his website, and emailing him a self portrait of myself (to be found on the forth row, center column) when he demanded such from his loyal followers. Ellis supplies me with strange, beautiful, and disturbing news and art, things with an eye always on the future- the things that are always coming. In the self-port I sent Warren, I am working on this sketch-
It’s an illustration for a friend’s mother, who wanted to buy copies of some of the science poems I performed recently. The tracing paper I purchased late this past summer has been used regularly, as I am doing different elements in different colors, overlaid and then snuck underneath the text. We’ll see how it looks. I don’t do a lot of drawing per se– I think of it a little the same way I think of my singing- I have some skill, but it is definitely not something I think of as being “talented” at.
Next is this photograph of Eighth Street downtown Minneapolis. Of the three places I’m frequenting most these days, two of them are downtown- the Central Library, where I’m picking up reserved books, and National Camera, since Target has more than proved their desire to make my photographs look like crud. This photograph is specifically for a boy in California who is a little sweet on me, and does a good deal of street photography. Only a few of the images I shot from the hip actually turned out- apparently my hip is exactly butt height for most people, and I do not excel at crotch shots. Unfortunately, National Camera’s higher quality does not come without a higher cost as well, and now I’m hardly making anything off of the photos I’m selling on Etsy, especially for the amount of work I’m putting into them. Le Sigh.
That brings us to this next image. This little pipecleaner beast accompanied a test print of the first poem I illustrated for Charlie’s mom. I’m a little stressed about how much time I’m spending on each of these projects- if I only sell one copy of each, I’m putting a whole lot of time into very little money. But the little pipe cleaner beast is adorable, and it’s kind of neat to see my writing put together so nicely.
This is the last Sponsor-a-Roll-of-Film I’ve sent out, two for my friend Jenny Rose, as I couldn’t decide, and she was the first to sponsor a mystery roll. She’s very happy with them, so I’m very happy with them.
This is my friend Dax’s puppetting set-up, from when he performed at the Bedlam this past week. I’m probably going to get this image up onto Etsy, soon. It’s the kind of thing *I’d* like a print of.
Finally, this is one of the sketches from the illustration of my mitochondria poem. It’s a pretty decent sketch, though, in the print it came out a little green. Edit edit…
Writing has not been going much of anywhere, and I’m a bit chagrined not to have any new poems to bring to slam for Semi-Finals next week at Kieran’s. I have this strange desire to be writing fiction, which is also embarrassing, given I worked on NaNoWriMo for all of one day before wandering off to do other things.
On the other hand, finding and keeping work is well on its way. Hopefully I can keep new gigs going, and get something fulltime, so I’m not stuck at home for days between gigs, not able to pay for more than a couple days’ transit fare. Cross your fingers, friends.
There are days you dream of the fields just past the swimming pool on the edge of town. The grains would wave on the hills like the earth dreamt of being the ocean, and in that moment where you hung in the air above the water, the arc of your leap from the diving board having reached its apex, your arms extended like an airplane’s wings, your back arched, your toes pointed behind you- in that moment you stopped time and looked around, memorizing the world from the highest point in town, just above the lifeguard’s chair. …read the rest at etsy
So, until I get a real job going, I’m trying to make a dime any way I can. Including using words to entice folks to buy images. Think about it, maybe?
Since getting back from California, I’ve started working on teaching the poetry half of a poetry/art workshop for teens at the Franklin Avenue library. The kids there are mostly immigrant kids from different parts of Africa, though there are kids who aren’t first generation immigrants, kids from Arabic-speaking countries, and at least one Native girl. It’s a challenge, but also incredibly rewarding- mostly, kids are kids- there are some pronunciation things as most of them started with a different language, and some cultural things like they don’t necessarily know the mostly European fairytales and nursery rhymes my kid-friendly poems refer to.
I’ve also had one performance with Marc’s bands, and have another one coming up next week. I really had a blast performing at the Bedlam with his math band and his retro futurist steam rock band (woo! favorite new band), and was a little amazed how complete and rapt the attention of the audience was during my spoken word set, how *into* it they seemed to be.
Between the workshop and playing with Marc’s bands, it has become apparent to me that I should be writing more kid-friendly (not that my poems are full of swearing, they’re just not necessarily poems younger folks would be *interested* in) and more science poems. Not-so-secret confession, after I have the money to actually publish Army of Nursery Rhymes, I really would like to start working on a chapbook of science-poems.
Sorry I’ve been too busy to write, kids. Here’s a little creative nonfiction to tide you over, posted this over at a vegan cooking community on LJ.
I tried my hand at polenta yesterday and was so delighted with the turnout, that I had to pass it along.
POLENTA
3 cups water
1 tsp salt
1 bullion cube (I used Rapunzel’s Sea Salt and Herb)
1 cup corn grits/polenta
2 Tbsp flax seeds
The recipe I had for polenta was really really basic, and I didn’t really have faith that it was going to come out flavorful, but I was hesitant to add oil (for fear it didn’t cohere.) Hence the bullion and flax seeds. Boil the water, salt, and bullion. When boiling, slowly add the the corn grits, stirring constantly with a wisk. Sir regularly, and when the polenta begins to pull away from the sides of the pot, add the flax seeds. Continue to stir, until the mix becomes quite thick. Poor into molds, or small bowls (as I did) to cool. Mine made six small bowls. Smooth the tops of the polenta with the back of a spoon. Allow to cool thoroughly- I left mine overnight in the fridge. I pan fried my polenta with a little bit of olive oil, allowing each side to get golden brown.
BLACK BEAN SAUCE
1 anaheim pepper
1 bell pepper
1 can black beans
1/2 jar tomato sauce
1 Tbsp olive oil
Chop peppers into small slices, brown in olive oil. Add tomato sauce (I used half a remaining jar of my mother’s home made spaghetti sauce, so something with a little garlic, onions, and chunks of actual tomato are what I suggest) and black beans. Stir.
Serve on the polenta, all warm and delicious. (This recipe comes to you courtesy of what’s left in my cupboards!)
Flight to Denver took off about an hour late, not likely to make the flight to San Francisco. As a consolation, the airline has given us free television to watch while we’re in the air- I’m taking the opportunity, as I don’t usually watch teevee. Watching the Rachel Maddow show, which I can’t believe I’ve never watched before. She’s a delight.
I’m hoping that Rubin can meet me at the airport, if I end up having to take a later flight into San Francisco. I think the plan was to BART, but maybe we’ll end up driving instead. Our flight is likely full of Minnesotans, who are watching the Vikings/Packers game, and occasionally cheering in unison. It reminds me of walking down Istanbul streets at night, and hearing cheers come from various buildings, all the soccer fans cheering for Dolmabaçe or their home team. I’m cheering for ACORN on the Rachel Maddow show. I think if we win (that is, the Vikings and the liberals) it’ll make up for the fact that the flight was so late. I bet the airline is crossing their fingers for a Viking victory.
I’m sitting next to a lovely couple from Iowa/Denver. My luck for flight companions has not let up, if my luck for flight timings has. The woman is an intelligent sort of lady, reminds me of Mom, kind and friendly. We talked at length about the power of the human brain- she was reading a book about a neuroscientist who’d had some sort of brain injury that meant that she’d lost use of her left hemisphere and discovered that she’d lost her Ego (in the good way) in the process- found a great, easily tapped peace within herself. I told her about Jane McGonigal’s concussion and the amazing game she’d designed to help herself heal in the most productive way possible. She’d gone back to get her masters in Seminary at the age of 33, and was a lovely, open-minded sort of woman. I wish I’d been brave enough to ask for her name and address, so I could send her a postcard. I’d have liked to strike up an acquaintance with her.
Read Dad “Istanbul 19 August 1999” and he said it was lovely, great compliment from a man who is fairly difficult to please, artistically. Mom and Ariana really loved it, and after the good performance at Balls Cabaret a week ago, I feel good about the poem. I might expand it, to tell the story of my mother and father, and the story of my uncle and his now ex-wife.
Denver to San Francisco
I’m sitting next to the window again, much to my delight. I prefer window seats, because I’m afraid of takeoffs and landings- it’s a little like my fear of heights, which causes me to climb all sorts of tall things. I’m on the left side of the plane this time, next to a pair of sisters, whose mother is across the aisle from them. The younger girl is next to me, and likely watching television her mother would disapprove of, given her careful glances across the aisle from time to time.
MTV and VH1 aren’t especially child-friendly, but I’m not about to say anything, because I don’t think that it’s wrong to know about those sorts of things (gay porn industry?), but I’m also aware of the fact that it’s not my decision what someone else’s child sees on teevee, and it’s definitely not my place to tell someone else’s child what they can/should and cannot/should not do. The girl seemed super excited to see the chest shaving of the man, and the episode didn’t seem to actually show any of the worrisome aspects so much as hint at them so heavily they couldn’t possibly be misinterpreted. It’s funny, because I think at that age I was pretty oblivious to televised sexuality. Maybe there wasn’t as much of it?
I’ve been reading a book of retold fairytales, given to my for my birthday by Rhe. These are definitely not children’s stories, with sexuality and drug use and abuse and all sorts of things playing heavy roles in the re-tellings. The stories are lush and poetic, and sometimes a bit overwhelming with how hard they are. Red Ridinghood has been sexually abused by her step-father, another story I can’t place is about heroin abuse and lesbian relationships: this is a book that I’m finding I must put down in order to be able to deal with the thoughts and emotions within them.
This is going to be good for my finishing the poem I was working on last. This trip to California is like my fear of heights, or takeoffs and landings- I am afraid of the unfamiliar, afraid to leave my home, and so it’s a compulsion to me. All of this is so good for me, this compulsion is the best sort of thing. Let me be scared of everything, so I will want to do it all.
I feel so good about being in arts in the twin cities- sometimes I’m sure we’re the reincarnation of artist enclaves of previous generations, I wonder if these sort of things aren’t happening in every city in the world.
Friday night, a party at my friend Joe’s place, I talked to painters, writers, djs, emcees. I had a moment out on the balcony, shortly after talking to a lovely young poet, where I had Joe and Eyedea recounting Eyedea’s intro to Joe’s band, getting a wedge of ginger from Kristoff Krane, and all of them running inside to do some free styling together. Tonight I shot off an email to an artist I met about a workshop she might be interested in having me help with. I remember going to parties before, where I didn’t know anyone but the host- I don’t remember ever feeling so welcome and creative.
Friday afternoon was my writing group, again, my poets are amazing people, and everyone so multitalented. Tonight, I didn’t go to their slam, because I was seeing the Rockstar Storytellers’ monthly show. Another incredibly friendly, charming, talented crew. My close friends are scheming a proposal for an art shanty which is a little genius, and which I get to take part in.
Sometimes I worry, acting as a thread who connects the different scenes, as a historian or publicist, documenting the scenes and making sure they get their due, that I’m not counted as “part” of what is happening here, instead looked at as a fangirl or a reporter. I don’t think that’s my stopping point, though, and I think my friends are as much my fans as I am theirs. I have some words, which may eventually stain lips and eyes and fingertips. I am so happy to be here– I am so happy to know so many amazing human beings.
