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Last Adventure Log Oct 11th-Nov 7th

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DAY 25 – 10/11/10: With a day to ourselves in between shows/states, and our desire to see another movie in the theater too strong to ignore, we pick a random spot between New York and Providence in which to catch a flick or two. We settle on Stamford, Connecticut, a nice little town not very far from NYC, where we go and see David Fincher’s The Social Network, which we both enjoy immensely, and stick around for Oliver Stone’s Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which we both agree is utter horseshit. It is an interesting double-feature, with both films touching on similar themes involving money and power, but while Fincher’s film is perfectly structured and completely engrossing, Stone’s is bloated, boring, sentimental, and ultimately fairly preposterous, the final nail in the coffin of a filmmaker whose work we once admired. We spend the night sleeping in the van of the University of Connecticut – Stamford, or some such college, and narrowly avoid trouble with the campus security force the next morning when one of their guards asks us what we’re doing there. Ezra mumbles something vague about how we were just leaving and he lets us go without further incident. The timing was good; only fifteen minutes earlier, we were asleep in back of the van.

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Ryk McIntire kicking off Got Poetry Live!

DAY 26 – 10/12/10:We arrive at Ryk McIntire’s house just in time to share a lovely dinner of pasta and homemade acorn bread with him and his wife, Melissa Guillet, and their three-year-old daughter, Autumn, who is probably the cutest kid on the East Coast, and plenty precocious as well (later, while we’re watching Hamlet 2 with Ryk, she comes into the room and looks at the DVD case; we ask her if she likes this movie and she says, “No. It’s not for little girls.” She also understands Alice’s iPod better than Ezra does). Shortly after dinner, we head out to the show, Got Poetry Live, an open mic with a very good following that Ryk hosts with the help of Tony Brown, who delivers a very well-written and impassioned piece about the “It Gets Better” movement that is among our favorites of the night. Ryk also delivers the goods, with a sweet but never sappy poem about Autumn that we both really like, and there is a special surprise appearance from none other than Mighty Mike McGee, who once called nearby Worcester, Massachusetts his home and has been all around the country and finally landed here. He does an excellent piece about celebrity culture, in which he expounds upon his many virtues that much more famous people will never equal, such as “Woody Harrelson will never have the disinterest in marijuana that I do” and “Taylor Swift wishes she could be as fat as me … Go ahead, girl, sing about it.” We then went on to do our feature, after being introduced by Ryk with our new “poet” names (Alice: “Killer Judo Word Launcher Supreme Love Truth Bringer” / Ezra: “Zero Tolerance In Your Face Ear Master Guru”) which was well-received enough to get us an invitation to stay in town another night to slam for a cash prize at a show that Ryk is helping Jay Chattelle start. After Got Poetry Live, we go to another, more late-night open mic at the Spot nightclub, where we each get to perform with a live band. Alice rocks the house, as she usually does with a live band, bringing out “The Hunt,” a piece she hasn’t yet done on this tour, and Ezra raps, as he usually does when he gets a live band to work with. This all goes over quite well, and the host invites us to come back anytime.

DAY 27 – 10/13/10: We decide to stay another night in Providence to check out the new slam Jay Chattelle is hosting in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, which might be familiar to some of you as the hometown of Peter’s favorite beer on Family Guy. First, though, Ryk takes us on a brief tour of Providence, the highlight of which is the cemetery that houses H.P. Lovecraft’s tombstone, though his actual remains are in an undisclosed location due to previous grave-robbing attempts – Lovecraft fans are so ghoulish. Here’s Ezra brooding over the great one’s grave:

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We arrive in Pawtucket that night after another delicious dinner with the McIntire family; unfortunately, there is not a big enough audience to actually hold a slam, but there are plenty of poets and a deejay, so we go ahead and have ourselves an intimate but lively open mic instead. Alice is particularly well-received and asked to close the show out with an encore performance after her first short set, and we make acquaintances with a number of very cool folks, who want us to come back sometime, perhaps on our next tour. This will turn out to be a frequent request throughout the rest of our days on the road. We spend the night at Ryk’s again, and then it’s off to Boston for the weekend, where we will be visiting Alice’s mom and former coworkers at the Natural Foods Trade Expo – East for a little rest, relaxation, and a lot of free samples.

DAYS 28-30 – 10/14/10-10/16/10: We arrive in Boston in the late afternoon and meet up with Alice’s mom at the convention center and hotel where the Trade Expo is going on. It is the first time Ezra has been to one of these things and he is somewhat overwhelmed: everywhere are people eager to share free food made by the companies they either own or are representing. This is only the beginning, so we walk around gathering free samples to eat immediately, planning to swing back through on Saturday when everyone is getting rid of their wares before flying back home – that’s when we’ll really load up on supplies for our rapidly dwindling food bin. Alice goes to a fancy dinner with folks she knows from her mom’s company, INFRA (Independent Natural Food Retailers Association) while Ezra stays in the luxurious hotel room and enjoys some time to himself. The next day we stumble upon an art crawl happening not far from the hotel and wander through one of the buildings, enjoying the gorgeous view from the artists’ studio lofts as well as samples of their work, which ranges from completely abstract to realistic representations and everything in between. That night, we put our van’s backseat bed to the test by piling in no less than six people in the back, including Ezra, Alice’s mom Corrine, and our good friend Nikki Duffney, who took Alice’s place at INFRA when she set off on this crazy adventure in the first place. We go out to a Thai restaurant in downtown Boston and back, and the bed holds up admirably.

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Later, we go with Nikki to meet up with some Boston friends and, after getting slightly lost and then 86ed from the bar we had planned on going to because Ezra is wearing shorts (a bad idea not only because of the bar’s dress code, but also due to the near-freezing, rainy weather that night), we end up getting seriously shitfaced at a bar with the awesome name the Whiskey Priest. We outlast everyone in our party and end up dancing till bar close to the tunes spun by a very good house deejay and, since the bar is luckily not too far from the hotel and convention center, we stumble back together and get some rest. On Saturday, we load up our food bin with last-call free samples, then end up spending an impromptu final night at the hotel because Nikki is too ill to fly. She mostly recovers throughout the night, no thanks to the mostly awful The Lovely Bones on the hotel’s free HBO; the reviews were right, this is Peter Jackson’s worst movie yet, and this is the guy who made Bad Taste (at least that one admitted what it was right in the title). All in all, a good time in a very cool city.

DAY 31 – 10/17/10: Today we head out to Worcester (pronounced “Woosta,” or “Wista,” apparently) and arrive at the Nu Cafe for the Poets’ Asylum show, run by Slam legend Bill McMillan (who can be seen in the excellent 1998 documentary SlamNation), among others. We arrive a few hours early and get a bite to eat, relaxing a bit before the show starts. It is during this time that Ezra receives a call from Michael Mlekodaj informing him that Eyedea, one of the all-time greatest rappers from the Twin Cities who we last saw at the National Poetry Slam’s Hip-Hop Headquarters show in August, has died in his sleep due to a complication from his sleep apnea. We’re both a bit devastated; Ezra knew Eyedea since seventh grade and he performed at the CD release party for the Death Ray Scientific album, and Alice’s good friend Chelsea was seeing a lot of him over the last few months as well. It feels like a piece of home is gone. In our feature set that night, Ezra takes part of his time to cover Eyedea’s “How Much Do You Pay?” from the outstanding The Many Faces of Oliver Hart album, which we listen to a few times over the next couple of days. Afterwards, we talk with Walden and Kate, who Alice knows from her days at INFRA, and they make us feel very much at home, as do Bill and his friends at the show, including Alex Charalambides, who is the only one at the Poets’ Asylum show who knows Eyedea’s name when Ezra dedicates the set to him. Alex is the host of the Dirty Gerund show (if you didn’t know, a gerund is an active verb used as a noun; a dirty gerund would be the verb “fucking” in the sentence “Fucking is a good way to spend one’s time”), where we will be performing tomorrow night, and he joins us back at the home of Bill and Sou McMillan, where we hang out in the basement, talking and smoking late into the night.

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DAY 32 – 10/18/10: We thoroughly enjoy staying with Bill and Sou, who is a fantasy writer and published Slam poet as well (her work can be found in the Spoken Word Revolution Redux book, along with Minnesota’s own Cynthia French), their son Liberty, who is a very smart and cool nine-year-old, and their four huge, furry cats. Liberty also has a pet rat, which surprisingly hasn’t become a problem with the cats. The McMillans prepare a delicious dinner and Sou even sends along a loaf of homemade bread with us, along with some of her short stories, and Bill gives us a copy of his new chapbook, as well as one for Karen G. when we get to Atlanta; we only have a book and CD each to share with them, but we are more than happy to do so. Their generosity was outstanding. Too soon, it’s time for us to leave, and we head out to Ralph’s Diner for the Dirty Gerund show, hosted by Alex and a hilarious and very enthusiastic fellow named Nick Davis. There is a live band, but unfortunately without a drummer, which makes it more difficult for Ezra to rap with them, but we pull together a solid feature set anyway, doing our best to live up to the dirty part of the show’s title. The Dirty Gerund open mic also features live painting by Ashley Tucker, who incorporates Alice into her on-the-spot painting (see the little naked chick in the singers throat?), which is completed throughout the show:

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Did I mention the Dirty Gerund is full of all kinds of ruckus, including Snack Time? Snack Time is apparently a regular part of the show, in which Nick brings some sort of deliciousness each time for all to enjoy; we were lucky enough to partake in chocolate-frosted cinnamon rolls – sooooo good! Alex offers us a place to stay for the night, and Ezra is flashed with a titty before we leave, but we have to get on the road again, so we regretfully take our leave of the fine folks of Worcester and begin our long drive to Fayetteville, South Carolina, where we will be visiting Alice’s friends from Morris, Ashley and Gabe.

DAY 33 – 10/19/10: We have a pleasant drive out to Ashley and Gabe’s house in Fayetteville, SC, and are treated to a delicious Mexican food dinner. Ashley is studying to be a nurse and Gabe is in the military, so they’ll be prepared for the apocalypse when it comes. At dinner, there is talk of guilty pleasure movies, the ones that are so bad you love them, and Gabe mentions John Carpenter’s They Live, which Ezra defends as an actually good movie. Alice has never seen it so we watch it when we get back to their place. We all think it’s unfortunate that we’re only in town for one night and we didn’t really get to spend much time together, so we make plans to visit them again on the way back.

DAY 34 – 10/20/10: We arrive in Atlanta, Georgia and settle in at the home of Alice’s sister Amie and her husband Mbola, who is from Madagascar. They are awesome folks who know how to throw a party – their wedding was one of the best times ever – and they make us feel very much at home.

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DAY 35 – 10/21/10: Amie and Mbola join us for our first show in Atlanta, which is at Cliterati, an “open no mic” series at a feminist/GLBT bookstore called Charys Books. The show is hosted by the always vivacious, affectionate and wonderful Karen Garrebrant, and there is a strong theme of school bullying throughout the night. Karen’s is our favorite of these, but there are many other strong works performed in the open mic, followed by a mini-feature by Tristan Silverman, who spits some hot fire, including a hilarious story about her all-girl’s summer camp when she and the other girls discovered their “joy-buttons.” This piece fits perfectly at a show called Cliterati, as does Alice’s feature set, which we close with guest appearances by Ezra on “Movie Geeks” and “Campaign.” A good time is had by all and we support the bookstore a bit by picking up a really cool book we didn’t know about before, 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom, a long illustrated essay by the greatest comic book writer ever, Alan Moore, about the history and suppression of erotic art.

DAY 36 – 10/22/10: On the advice of Karen G. the night before, we decide to hit up the open mic and featured performance by Tristan Silverman and Atlanta’s own Theresa Davis, who also performed at the Cliterati show. The show is at Agnes Scott College, an all-female school, and Alice makes a joke that Ezra couldn’t get away with in the open mic, saying, “If you weren’t a lesbian when you got here, you are now,” winning over the crowd and delivering a solid performance of “The Fountain.” Ezra follows her, introducing himself as a student at Agnes Scott and letting that sink in for some laughs before going into “Nostalgia,” an old poem he hasn’t yet done on the tour and that he performed at Nationals in 2006 in a bout against Karen G. and Theresa Davis, which is how he first met them. It feels like a good way to wrap up the open mic, and the shared feature that follows is top-notch, with Tristan and Theresa sharing the stage poetry-tag style, alternating pieces and bouncing off of each other’s energy and the audience, which is a large and lively crowd. Tristan does two of her best from the Cliterati mini-feature the previous night, as well as a short but excellent one about a dog humping a crucifix that was way more poignant and intelligent than that might sound. Theresa’s best, in our opinion, is a devastating account of witnessing and reporting a rape. It’s a heavy night all in all, and it inspires a short, dark poem from Ezra when we return to Amie and Mbola’s house.

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DAY 37 – 10/23/10: Today we go with Amie and Mbola to check out a fall arts & crafts festival in Atlanta, which features a lot of really cool work by local folks, including jewelry made from real butterflies, buttons of famous actors and pop culture icons with vulgar captions added to them, and a series of movable dioramas depicting grisly and ghoulish subjects. There is also a band on stage when we get there made up of really young-looking kids, probably in sixth or seventh grade, tops, rocking out covers of Guns N’ Roses, Nirvana and others, along with a couple of originals; they end up maintaining a bigger and more enthusiastic crowd than the adult acts that come on later. It’s partly the novelty, of course, but we speculate that if they keep at it, those kids will be great by the time they’re our age.

DAY 38 – 10/24/10: This is a big day for poetry, with the Night Kite Revival in the afternoon and our feature at the Java Monkey open mic tonight. The Night Kite Revival is a collective comprised of legendary Slam poets Buddy Wakefield, Anis Mogjani and Derrick Brown, along with rotating secondary cast members that have in the past included folks like Mike McGee and, on this particular tour (which stopped in Geneseo, NY, shortly after we were there), the musical stylings of Timmy Straw and Emily Wells. Timmy Straw plays keyboards and sings with a beautifully sad voice; Emily Wells also sings like an angel and plays a mean violin, using loop pedals to layer both of her instruments, and she is currently working on a project with Dan the Automater, the genius producer behind classics like Deltron 3030, Handsome Boy Modeling School and Lovage. It’s a really good show, leaving us with wonderful, memorable lines like “Forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past” (Buddy Wakefield) and “Booze is my tuition to clown college” (Derrick Brown).

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Later, at the Java Monkey open mic, many of the performers mention the show, and it seems like we will share a lot of the same crowd, which is a large one, including Amie, Mbola and a few of Amie’s friends, and a whole bunch of other people who are apparently regulars here. The host is a guy named Kodac, who is a lot like a Southern-fried Tom Waits. He kicks of the show with a poem called “Regret” that reinforces the Tom Waits similarity and the open mic begins, a long list of performers that includes Karen G. once again and a guy known as Skinny Bully, who recites a very good poem about his experience doing social work. We lose some of the crowd when there is a break after the first half of the open mic, but there are still plenty of people left for our feature, which we split with Alice going first, followed by a few poems from Ezra and closing with “Movie Geeks.” The crowd is very appreciative, and after the rest of the open mic, we go with Karen, Kodac and Gabe, who we met at the Agnes Scott show, to a local bar called the Brick Shop Pub, where Kodac tells us tales of his friendship with Jimmy Carter’s son and we run into none other than Derrick Brown on the way out. It was a very good night for us and we are looking forward to our next stop in sunny Florida!

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Day 40 – 10/26/10: We arrive at Infusion Tea with just enough time to eat dinner before the Soft Exposure open mic. Naomi Butterfield, the host of the open mic, treats us to a delicious dinner that tastes like it came straight from the Birchwood to Alice. When it’s time to start the open mic, things are looking a little grim. It’s not well attended tonight and the audience is quiet. Also, we’re up first so there’s no one to warm up the audience. Ezra starts it off and pushes his performance hard. Despite the quiet nature and older age of the audience, he doesn’t censor himself too much, which pays off because he’s got them laughing hard by the end of his set. Then he brings up Alice and she does 10 minutes of poetry that wins her the rapt attention of everyone in the restaurant. Afterwards, during the open mic period of the evening, a man even comes up to read an impromptu poem he wrote inspired by Alice’s performance. Damn, that makes her feel all warm and yummy.

Naomi Butterfield’s man Steve Tune agrees to put us up in his wonderful guest-house out back of his lovely Orlando home. It’s heavenly to have a place that feels like our own and Steve says we can stay as long as we like, so we decide to kick it in Orlando for a few days.

Day 41 – 10/27/10 : Sweet blissful nothing.

Day 42 – 10/28/10 : Today we head out to the Orlando Slam for Ezra to compete in their Dead Poets slam, in which you select one of your favorite dead poets to cover. The slam was at an old video store turned hipster hang-out, complete with a library, a bar, and a performance space. Guess that’s the only future for video stores with Netflix these days. The slam featured a number of great Orlando poets including Ronin (who covers an obscure French poet in highly entertaining broken French), Curtis X. Meyer, who ends up taking second place, and Tod Caviness (who will burn in hell for covering Mattie Stepnanek – look him up – in complete costume: wheelchair, blanket over his legs, and all). And then there was Ezra, who decided somewhat last-minute to do another tribute to Eyedea, covering “Step By Step” and “How Much Do You Pay?” from the Oliver Hart album. Despite the fact that only a handful of folks in the club recognized Eyedea’s lyrics and that Ezra takes suicide spot in the slam, Ezra dominates from the beginning and wins the Slam. When he accepts his prize, he mentions that Eyedea’s wake happened earlier that night back in Minnesota; this was the next best way to pay tribute, since we couldn’t be there. Everyone was moved Eyedea’s work, which just goes to show the man continues to reach people even now that he’s gone.

Day 43 – 10/29/10: Today we’re headed out to the Ripley Believe it or Not! Museum, our first excursion into the true tourist attractions of Orlando. Thanks to Curtis X. Meyer, whose father works for the Ripley Museums, we’ve got a free pass to all the Ripley Museums in the world for the rest of our lives, or at least until we lose his business card. The moment we step out of the car, we’re rewarded with this mythical sight:

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A building on its back!

From the moment we walk in, the Ripley Museum has got us entranced. Ripley was an American cartoonist and anthropologist who traveled the world between 1920-1950 collecting artifacts, stories, and amazing facts. He worked all of his findings into a popular cartoon series called Ripley’s Believe it or Not! While we understand how some might find Ripley’s cartoons and massive collections ethnocentric and even exploitative, we enjoy the hell out of everything in there. Hopefully a museum such as this encourages people to get out there and see the world for themselves; it sure left Alice with chronically itchy feet. Some of our favorite things in the museum included the shrunken head and the video on how they’re made, the brain teasers,
the weight lifting frogs,

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the Fuji Mermaid,

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the Wolpertinger,

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and last but not least this:

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a tunnel made out of moving walls, filled with flashing black lights and techno music, with a bridge that you have to traverse from one end to the other. Being in the tunnel creates an insane sense of vertigo; it feels as if the floor is undulating below you, so convincingly that it actually throws you off-balance. It is almost impossible to traverse the bridge without holding on to the handrails. We spend at least five minutes in there trying out different things like taking giant steps that have Ezra almost falling on his face, and hanging over the edge of the bridge to feel like you’re flying upside down. Then we go to dinner at a Chinese buffet, and over an extremely excessive meal we realize we hadn’t walked through the tunnel with our eyes closed. So, we go back (thanks to Curtis, we get in free again) and this time we spend almost twenty minutes in the tunnel. And our scientific experiment concludes that when you close your eyes and walk through, you don’t feel a thing. Goddamn, optical illusions are almost as good as drugs. Almost.

Day 44 – 10/30/10: Steve’s mom, Barb, has invited us to have dinner with the family and friends tonight. We spend the day lazing around before dinner, both working on writing projects. Alice plows through the Henry and June edition of Anais Nin’s diary, which has got her daydreaming about going back to France, while Ezra prepares to begin the National Novel Writing Month challenge, in which he will attempt to write 50,000 words of a novel during the month of November. Dinner is served out on the patio with the lizards and perfect Orlando weather. We all drink lots of red wine and eat till our tummies are distended.

Day 45 – 10/31/10: Today is Halloween, but Steve, in his techy awesomeness, hooks us up with Netflix out in the guesthouse. So we stay in and watch Masters of Horror all night long. This is a great series if you haven’t seen it; we particularly recommend John Carpenter’s Cigarette Burns and Takashi Miike’s Imprint.

DAY 46 – 11/1/10: NaNoWriMo begins, and we decide to check out downtown Orlando. We visit the History Museum, which we deviously sneak into without paying after Ezra wrestles some alligators outside:

The history museum is pretty cool, though we really only check out an exhibit of Florida’s “Highwaymen” painters, a group of self-taught artists that made a successful impact on the American art scene with their unique landscapes of authentic Floridian coastal beauty. Here’s an example:

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After the History Museum, we drive to downtown Disney to check out that freakshow, which is kind of like a family-friendly Las Vegas, though when we arrive the first thing we see is a group of adults (college age) performing a song called “Born to Hand-Jive” for a group of adults (old). The weird thing is not only the strangeness of these overenthusiastic, Mickey Mouse Club-style “kids” performing for an audience that is seriously made up almost completely of other adults (we saw maybe two kids in the whole crowd), but also what a suggestive song they picked. “Hand-Jive,” which is apparently some sort of spastic dance involving weird hand gestures and a lot of jumping around, sounds almost exactly like “handjob,” which is another activity entirely (perhaps you’ve tried it). The crowning strangeness of it all was that none of the adults in the audience seemed to notice this at all; they just looked bored and touristy. So we wander around downtown Disney just trying to do all the free stuff we can, which is mainly just looking at stuff. The best of this is the most commercial art gallery ever; this thing is seriously a gift shop with the gallery right inside it, and everything is for sale, but the cool thing is that they’re exhibiting a lot of the “secret art” of Dr. Seuss, so we definitely enjoyed that. Tonight we reconnect with Curtis Meyer, who takes us to a Hip-Hop open mic at Austin’s Coffee and Film in Winter Park, FL, run by none other than Madd Illz, founder and CEO of GrindTimeNow, the world’s largest battle rap league. Ezra first met Madd Illz over a year ago when he came up to Minneapolis to start the Twin Cities division of GrindTime. You can see Ezra’s battles here:

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The open mic has no host; emcees just stand in a line that stretches out the front door of the coffee shop it is held in and wait their turn to get on the mic. It is an all-freestyle open mic, and Madd Illz is easily the best, consistently killing lengthy, fast-paced and intricate extemporaneous verses that rival the best of Juice, Eyedea, or any other freestyle legend. Ezra observes that the world is wack when someone like Wacka Flocka Flame (2nd mention in this blog!) is more famous than Madd Illz. The rest of the open mic emcees are not half as good, until Ezra gets on and manages to do roughly that: half as good as Madd Illz. Seriously, check this dude out (note: this video was shot at Austin’s Coffee and Film, with the same deejay who spun the night we were there):

Madd Illz!!!

Day 47 – 11/2/10: We arrive at Casandra Tenenbaum’s place a few hours before the slam, which is at a restaurant in Delray Beach called Dada. There we’re greeted with big hugs from her roommates, and we find that a hug from a complete stranger is a beautiful thing when you’re far from home. On the way to the Slam, Casandra tells us about her plans to open a charter school with her roommates. They’re working on a program structure in which high school kids propose a project at the beginning of the year and then spend the whole year focusing on that project. Alice questions her about their plans for real sex education (none of that abstinence-only stuff) and healthy school lunches. She’s happy to find out that they’re even planning on a school garden and nutritionist.

Dada glows beneath low lighting and a creative atmosphere enhanced by Dali-esque paintings both in frames and painted right onto the wall. On top of that, the pay for featuring comes complete with a gourmet meal and mojitos with real sugar cane straws to chew. During dinner we meet Atlas, a street prophet who has devoted his life to spreading his art by performing in public areas, always wearing a mask and promoting a non-secular message of love and compassion. Alice is pretty taken with him (but in a way that doesn’t make Ezra jealous, because he also likes Atlas) and they spend a while talking about identity issues and following the path we desire, something that came up before for us in Chicago when conversing with Laura Yes Yes. You can check out some of his spoken word and rhetoric here:http://www.withinorwithout.com

Ezra takes over the feature set and Alice decides to slam in hopes of making off with the winnings; she does very well, going head-to-head and ultimately taking second place to Katie Wirsing, who won the National Poetry Slam in 2006 with the Denver team. Ezra gets lots of love for the feature set and manages to sell a few CDs, including one he sells for the price of a mojito to a couple who are out for their first time after having a baby.

Day 48 – 11/3/10: We wake up to an empty house and a note under the door from Casandra outlining her schedule for the day. At 11 am, she comes back home to take us down to the beach for breakfast and hula-hooping in the sand. Ezra even gets in the ocean, though he swears he hates water. Eventually, Alice conquers her fear of the bright blue jellyfish that line the shores and gets in as well to spend the afternoon diving in and out of the waves.

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At night we head out to an open mic at the Funky Buddha Lounge before we hit the road back to Atlanta. The host perfectly introduces the night by telling us we’re about to witness a parade of broken dreams. Picture snowbird comedians and singer-songwriters for two hours. One hack even started a joke with “So, why do they call it the clap anyways? If the doctor called you up to tell you that you had it, do you think you’d start clapping?” Actually, that was the whole joke. Yep, we checked out early.

Day 49-51 – 11/4/10-11/6/10: We’re back in Atlanta for now. Alice starts work with INFRA again for the time being, which is nice because that means a paycheck, and decides to have Mbola cut off all her hair.

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Ezra remains blissfully unemployed and continues to let his freak flag fly (and his hair grow).

Day 52 – 11/7/10: Tonight is our final show at the Asheville, NC, slam. Apparently, the slam is at a Masonic Temple. The fact that it’s a temple makes us question the less than pure content of our set for a second, but only a second, cuz screw it. They’re getting what they signed up for. We picked up this show thanks to Karen G. after the Art Amok show was cancelled due to venue changes. That seems to have been a common occurrence on our tour, slams and open mics seeming to have trouble holding down a consistent venue. We saw this in Chicago, Palatine, and Worcester as well. Guess the venues haven’t gotten the memo yet that poetry brings all the boys and girls to the yard.

The drive to Asheville takes us through the rolling hills of the Appalachians; it’s truly hillbilly country out here. We arrive in Asheville just before the show is supposed to start and head right to the Temple. We rush in, desperate for a bathroom, and run into two other poets and a grey-haired Mason, who also happens to be a part-time bellhop. The Mason calls down an old weight-and-pulley elevator for us and brings us up to the second floor to use the bathroom, which can be converted to a men’s room or a women’s room by simply sliding a plaque on the door. Before the show we explore the Temple, which is complete with a meeting hall with ornate chairs on opposite sides of the room, gavels, swords, metal batons, and black & white photos of previous Masons. The show is in the Temple’s theater, which was built for the theatrical version of their Irish rites, the ceremony for inducting Masons. We’re thrilled to find that the theater comes with 100-year-old sets; tonight’s resembles an Egyptian temple. Basically, we’ll be performing in front of King Tut’s Tomb.

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The room quickly fills up with a familiar looking crowd of poets: neo-beats, neo-hipsters, neo-hippies, neo-gangstas and the like, and we’re off. Griffin Payne, the SlamMaster and host of the show, bounds on to stage with an energy that reminds us of Wonder Dave. Throughout the show he changes costumes and props. He even comes out with a bunny hat and bunny slippers at one point, which really makes us miss Dave. The show starts with a local jazz/rock band called Lyric and local feature Brooke Van Der Linde. Then the first half of the slam kicks off. Some memorable poets from the first round include Drewkowski, who does a poem about America getting fucked in the ass by Satan (who, he informs us, sports a giant cock wrapped in a Goldman-Sachs condom complete with a BP label, that when peeled back, lets out a load of crude oil all over her face) and Jeb Jackson, who told a parable about meeting women through lost-dog flyers that was equally brilliant and hilarious, though less political. Later, Ezra realized that “Drewkowski” is actually Andrew Procyk, a SlamMN team transplant he last saw years ago when he featured in Minneapolis.

We take the stage in between the first and second round of the slam for our final set of the tour. Alice does a handful of her favorites, feeling pretty different on stage with her new haircut, and then swears to put all of those poems to rest for a good long while. “Annabel Chong” gets a particularly good reception. It seems to Alice that a temple is just the right place for “Annabel” to be put to rest for now. Then Ezra wows with a few verses and gets folks laughing with “House.” We end the night with our group pieces, thoroughly defiling the shit out of that temple together. Afterwards, Alice gives away the rest of her books, not wanting to haul them around anymore and really needing to part with that work to start anew. She hands the books to anyone who comes up and talks to her and takes any money they offer up. In the end she gives out about fifteen book and gets around $70, which pretty much covers the cost of printing. Ezra also gives CDs out for whatever folks can afford, but doesn’t do quite as well, since he is still reluctant to give too many away for free – CD pressing is expensive y’all. Next time we tour, we might make a point to give out merch for whatever people offer. The way we see it, it’s about getting your voice heard, plus people are more likely to buy your stuff even if they don’t have ten bucks in cash.

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When all is said and done, Asheville turns out to be the perfect last stop for our tour. The scenery is breath taking, the crowd is rambunctious, everyone here can’t stop talking about how much they love living here, and the venue is the best one yet. Thank you, Asheville, for giving us great closure.

Finally, after more than seven weeks, more than 4,500 miles, more than enough poetry, and too many generous, wonderful new acquaintances to count, let alone thank, we decide to modify our plans, because life is what happens while you’re making them. We had originally set out to tour for a couple months and ultimately end up in L.A., but due to its location, excellent public transit, and other factors, we decide to head back up to New York City and see how that goes. Wish us luck!

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Adventure Log Sept 30th-Oct 10th

GENESEO, NY

DAY 14 – 9/30/10: We roll through the hills of upstate New York entranced, as mile after mile of oak, acorn, and birch in fall burn disappear behind us. This has got to be one of the most beautiful places in the US and we’re lucky to be here at just the right time of year. The drive up to the University of New York, Geneseo, is a bit of a climb and it’s raining so the van keeps stalling every time we come to a stop. Alice is getting really good at double-footed driving, one on the gas at all times and the other working the brake; if the van is getting a constant feed of gas it won’t die. When we arrive in Geneseo, Ingamar Ramirez, our host and poetry booking agent for the school, braves the rain to come find us and show us the way to a warm shower. He takes us to the student union and sets us loose. It’s still a few hours till show time. Being here has already started to take Alice back. Geneseo, with a student population of approximately 4,000, isn’t much bigger than where Alice went to college at the University of MN, Morris, and just as Garrison Keillor’s “Lake Wobegon” parables could refer to just about any small town, so does Alice’s knowledge of life as a college student stranded in small town USA. Ingamar comes back to find us in the study lounge a few hours later and takes us to the Knight Spot, where we’ll be performing. As we ascend the steps through the school grounds (SUNY Geneseo is built on the side of a hill and offers a fantastic view of the forests sprawled out below) Ingamar stops to point out the sunset scorching a swatch of burnt sienna across the sky and tells us, “Athletes listen to rock n roll to get pumped up, and here poets get the sunset.”

Students quickly file in and before long the room is full, so we begin the show. Alice starts the show off right out of the gate with a nasty little poem and it’s cl

ear from their shining eyes that the students are going to eat up her dirty work, and they do. Except for a few of Alice’s heavier poems, we keep it light for most of the show. Ezra wins the crowd with the college work-study reminiscent poem “New Batch,” and we end the show with our new rendition of “Campaign” (Alice’s ode to female masturbation as in inalienable right) as a duet.

After the show, the enthusiasm and gratitude of the audience is overwhelming, as they stop to chat and buy our merchandise on their way out. We end up at Ingamar’s house with a few Geneseo students, which is on a huge lake reminiscent of home. Synchronicity

seems to be doing its job lately, as just a few days ago Alice was telling Laura Yes Yes that what she wants most in life is to be on the end of a dock over a calm lake on a fall day, and that is exactly what Ingamar serves up, along with great conversation and his roommate’s warm bed. Thank you, Geneseo!

Peace

NIAGARA FALLS

DAY 15 – 10/1/10: After Geneseo, we decide to do a little bit of the “travel” portion of our travel and performance tour and visit the legendary Niagara Falls, which is only about 90 minutes’ drive from Geneseo. It is extremely beautiful, as expected, with waterfalls and rapids in all directions, and we spend several hours just walking around the huge national park before heading into the town’s Little Italy district in search of food and a dive bar, preferably in the same place. We find it at Mujunz, a nicely priced tavern with a sandwich and quesadilla joint attached to it, with a window between the two so you can order food without leaving the bar, which is tended by a sassy, energetic lady named Tina. It’s always good to get off the well beaten path and meet the locals. We drink a lot of inexpensive whiskey and beer before returning to the van for some much needed sleep.

ONEONTA, NY

DAY 16 – 10/2/10: Well, we have a few days to kill before we hit NYC, and it’s just our luck that once again we find the perfect solution. In Geneseo, while killing time before our show, Ezra started to chat with Philip Morris’s (see Chi-Town blog) girlfriend, Glam Damage, on FaceBook, and found out that she is now living in Oneonta, NY, which is about halfway between Geneseo and NYC, and she agreed to let us crash at her place for the next two nights. On our way, Phillip Morris texts Ezra to let him know that we’re in good hands with Glam, and he is right! We arrive in the evening and are instantly greeted with libations, a delicious three-course meal, and a room all to ourselves.

DAY 17 – 10/3/10: Today Glam Damage takes us out to the Fly Creek Cider Mill, one of the main tourist attractions in upstate New York. It is a beautiful ride out and the Cider Mill is full of delicious samples and treats. We pick up some apples and other snacks for the road before heading back to Glam’s house for pizza and a couple movies, a very relaxing break from our tour. Glam and her roommates Rachel and Joel are excellent hosts and we pay them back as best we can by performing a few poems and leaving them with a book and CD before we hit the road for New York City! Thank you again Glam for all of your generosity.

Ezra hanging out on Glam Damage's Couch

NEW YORK CITY

DAY 18 – 10/4/10: We arrive in NYC just in time to take the last two open mic spots at the Louder Arts Poetry Slam, hosted by Emily Kagan Trenchard. The open mic begins with special guest Mongo Bearwolf, host of the IndieFeed Live podcast, reading his poem, “Small,” about the little things worth dying for, such as “a misplaced comma that totally changes the meaning of my life.” Alice instantly falls for Corinna Bain, who reads a poem during the open mic with the very true line, “I move to New York because it’s not the woods. Because people move like blood cells through the subway. Because in the handful of city blocks an average person walks in an average day, it is somehow guaranteed that you will see one of the most beautiful women in the world.” New York – it was love at first sight. Then it’s time for the slam and we’re asked to judge. We gladly accept; this will be Alice’s first time judging and only Ezra’s second, after seven years in the scene. We’re determined to stay consistent though, so we keep track of the scores we give throughout the night and are not surprised to find out that more often than not we’re the lowest scoring judges. We give Jon Sands and Geoff Kagan Trenchard (a longtime favorite of Ezra’s) the highest scores in the first round. Thomas Fucaloro, who does a poem on paper about “soberism,” gets a somewhat low score from us, inciting a round of “boos” from the crowd. He doesn’t give the usual rousing performance most slammers do; instead he reads like a professor might. In the second round we begin to question our first impression of Thomas when we does a brilliant piece about his dictionary. Later, we find out Thomas is one of the New York scene’s new favorites when he places third in the slam after Geoff and Jon, who wins with a hilarious piece in the voice of a Puerto Rican lady whose boyfriend “don’t do shit but smoke weed – like, that’s the only shit … he do.”

DAY 19 – 10/5/10: We check into a hostel in Manhattan this morning. Though it cost us more than we’d budgeted for the whole week in NYC, we’ll be closer to everything here. Also, we get to relish spending the morning sitting around naked, a rare treat when you’re living out of the back of a van. Later, we head for the Bowery Poetry Club, home of the Urbana slam, to watch the recording of a number of IndieFeed Live shows. All of the NYC Slam Masters were asked to choose an up and coming poet from their scene to interview on IndieFeed, the Slam Masters and a poet from their scene performing a poem and then getting into the interviews. We get to see performances from Mahogany Browne (Nuyorican Slam Master), Jeanann Verlee (Slam Master of Urbana), Emily Kagan Trenchard (Slam Master of Louder Arts), and James Merenda (Slam Master of the Intangibles). Then each of them brings up a poet from their scene; at this point though, we’re unsure who came from which slam, so in no particular order, they include Bamboo MC, Corrina Bain, Thomas Fucaloro, and Jivepoetic Droopist. All of them give fantastic performances; Alice particularly enjoys Corrina again, while Ezra especially likes Bamboo MC, and we both agree that Jeanann is stellar. We also get an opportunity to do our duet “Movie Geeks” during the open mic, which earns us a free drink from the bartender, Diane. After the show Alice is so inspired that she rushes back to the hostel to write and Ezra stays at the Bowery to watch a series of three webisodes that star Jon Sands, which he quite enjoys, followed by poetry by the cast and the writer of the series. Ezra is particularly impressed with a poem by Sands’s co-star Angel, who reads an open letter from her heart to the sea, including the awesome line “Why you leave so much dry land – didn’t your mother teach you how to swallow?” Ezra is also very inspired after this show and heads back to the hostel to write a couple of short poems, including his best one in a long time, “Life Story (In 60 Seconds Or Less).”

Check out IndieFeed Live’s poetry channel here.

DAY 20 – 10/6/10: On the advice of Alex Zimmerman, another New York poet, we head out to Chelsea to check out the Highline Gardens. We get off the subway at Times Square after deciding to walk the rest of the way. On the way we happen upon the famous Chelsea Hotel, once home of Henry Miller, Leonard Cohen and others. We spend a few minutes in the lobby daydreaming about the luxury of living in a hotel with housekeeping and fellow artists at the bar down the block. The Highline Gardens are built on a boardwalk above the neighborhood streets; real estate is priceless in NYC. Here you can walk for blocks and gaze down at the city below, out at Hudson Bay, and enjoy local art work and well-tended flower beds. After the gardens we head to the renowned Nuyorican Poets Cafe for their poetry and Hip-Hop open mic. There we’re treated to the workings of a violinist and later a skilled jazz band as back up during our performances. One of the best performances of the open mic is an emcee named Rugged n Raw, who is one half of the brilliantly named duo Mohammad Dangerfield; his solo album includes production by Remot, an excellent producer from New Hampshire who is also featured on Ezra’s album – small world. Then we wait 45 minutes for the subway to come and take us back home. Timing is everything in NYC.

Street Art Seen From the Highline Gardens

Street Art Seen From the Highline Gardens

DAY 21 – 10/7/10: We get up early (for us) and head out to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the day. After setting out to walk across Central Park on our way there, we turn back to the hostel, twice, after talking to Amie on the phone and getting worried about getting our bags searched at the door (Ezra has his Leatherman on him and Alice has a paring knife). The Met is everything that one might hope for in an art museum; huge lofted ceilings, art from all different regions and periods, and too much for one day. Here are a few favorites:

Ezra seeing his first real live Dali

Ezra seeing his first real live Dali

Afterwards, we sit on the steps of the Met eating some snacks, being entertained by a street performer, and watching the pedi-cab drivers pick up their fares. Alice can’t help but daydream about having that job.

Central Park

Central Park

DAY 22 – 10/8/10: Today turns out to be a bit of a bust: we manage to finally get some laundry done after checking out of the hostel, but later in the evening we make some crucial miscalculations and arrive late to the Nuyorican, where the wonderful poet Jared Singer is featuring at their Slam. Unfortunately, he goes on first and finishes his set while we are still standing in line; the second feature and first round of the slam are also over by the time we get in. Since it costs 10 dollars each to get in and there is literally no seating whatsoever in sight, we decide to get our money back and spend it on some nice, greasy New York pizza (later we find out that Mo Browne had actually saved us a couple seats near the stage and would have let Alice sacrifice before the Slam if we had made it there in time – c’est la vie and thanks anyways Mo!).

DAY 23 – 10/9/10: Today is the day of Brian Omni Dillon’s birthday party, where we meet a lot of cool new NYC folks and get to spend more time hanging out with a few we’ve already gotten to know, including Bamboo MC, Mo Browne and Jivepoetic, who is the DJ of the party. Omni serves up a lot of delicious food, including vegetable lasagna for the few vegetarians at the party (there are at least two others besides us), and the wonderfully friendly and vivacious Stephanie Olga brings some severely delicious spinach pies as well. There are also margaritas, whiskey and lots of beer, so much of the rest of the night is kind of a blur before we retire a bit early to sleep in the van.

DAY 24 – 10/10/10: Tonight is our first and only planned show in NYC, at a place called Lolita Bar near Chinatown, and we are a little worried about attendance. It turns out we have good reason to be: of all the people we’ve met in New York this week and all the makeshift fliers (Alice’s business card with the show info handwritten on the back) that we’ve given out, the one and only person who shows up to see us is Kurtis Melby, an old friend Ezra used to work with at the Riverview Theater back in Minneapolis, who only stumbled upon the show by accident earlier today on facebook. We don’t mind too much, though, and proceed to give him an hour-long show anyway, featuring Alice’s very venue-appropriate poem “Lolita’s Revenge” (perhaps her best performance of it yet) and a 20-minute rap set by Ezra (aka Tom Swifty). All in all, it’s a very fun show, much more intimate and conversational than usual, and Kurtis enjoys it enough to buy a book and CD afterward. Then we head back to his place about five blocks away, where he kindly lets Ezra take a shower and we watch the Christian Bale/Russell Crowe western 3:10 To Yuma (which played at the Riverview a few years ago when Kurtis and Ezra were working there together) before heading out to the van for one more nights’ sleep in New York. Next up: Providence, Rhode Island, where we will be staying with Slam legend Ryk McIntire and his family.

Audience of One

Audience of One

Adventure Log Entry 2 Sept 29th – Detroit

Chicago blurring away in our dust!

Day 13 – 9/29/10 After we leave Palatine we drive late into the night and stop at a rest stop in Jackson, Michigan to spend our first night in the back of the van. The van is comfortable and the curtains I hung in the back ward off the blinding semi truck brights. We discover that rest stops make for great places to crash for a good night of sleep and a crappy place to powder your nose in the morning – there’s no hot water! So we make our way to a gas station a few miles away to freshen up and eat breakfast out of the back of the van. Alice calls her step-mom Ellen, who grew up in Detroit, who advises us to check out Cass Street and Forest Ave where she used to live to see a typical Detroit neighborhood. The evidence of a city brought to its peak by the auto industry and then sent crashing down after its withdrawal is all around. We hit Detroit a few hours later and quickly find out that confidence in strangers is a bit lacking here after stopping at three different gas stations to try and find a bathroom, all to no avail.

We stop at Cass Cafe to eat and sit for the majority of the day at the suggestions of Lauren Begent and Seth Walker, another traveling duo that we came to Detroit to meet up with who aren’t able to spend the day with us because they’re in the process of struggling with the Detroit police to get Seth out of jail. You can read more about their encounter with the Detroit po here as well as Seth Walker’s other Facebook notes on the right to travel with out a license, etc.:

READ MORE HERE

Later, we meet up with Seth and Lauren at The Sweet Epiphany Cafe where they’re playing their last feature set after a few weeks in Detroit. Seth and Lauren have been on the road since before the National Poetry Slam in August and have shows booked across the country all the way through February. They’re true gypsies and even teach a workshop on Guerrilla touring. Read more here:

The crowd at Sweet Epiphany is slow to gather and at first it seems like the show is going to be a wash, but eventually a good crowd builds and the MC for the evening, singer-songwriter Deekah, takes the stage with her acoustic guitar and opens up the night with a powerful cover of Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” and a handful of her own original compositions. Then the open mic begins and it quickly becomes evident with all of the snapping, hollering, and cheering that this crowd can put out as well as any bar full of drunks. Between performers, DJ Untitled (aka Chris), who invited us out to the show to open for Lauren and Seth and cooked a whole tray of delicious veggie pasta just for us, keeps it bumping and also gets up to the mic to share a few great poems of his own. I’m feeling under the weather, so Ezra fills in for me on the mic, spending a good portion of his 15 minutes doing a capella rap verses, which wins him the crowd. A woman named Maia even jumps up on the mic later to proclaim, “If you buy Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, Waka Flocka Flame, and all that other nigga shit you should buy his shit!” (It should probably be noted here that Maia is black.) Ezra loves Lil Wayne, but decides to take it as a compliment, though probably not a good quote to go in his bio. Next is the main event: Seth and Lauren take the stage and deliver an unbelievable show. Lauren rips it up on the violin, playing a few minutes of her own wicked variation of a concerto by Mendelsohnn. Seth brings the entire audience close to tears with show-stopping performances of his pieces “Glowstick Girl” and “A Tree Story.” It’s inspiring to see such a strong performance of pieces that he’s probably been doing three times a week for their whole tour. Afterwards, we have to sneak out early to get on the road – next stop Geneseo, NY!

Adventure Log Sept 17th-28th – Chicago!

Loading up the covered wagon.
Loading up the covered wagon.

DAY 1 – 9/17/10: We arrive at Alvin Lau’s apartment in the early evening and soon after depart for Real Talk Live, a recurring open mic at the Vox Ferus (Fierce Voice) house, home of Emily Rose, Laura Yes Yes, J. W. Baz, Eboni Hogan and Roger Bonair-Agard, who are all moving out at the end of September. This is, therefore, the last Real Talk Live at this location, so it’s a pretty good place for our first stop on the tour. The featured guests are Crista Franklin, who impressed me both with her poetry and the fact that she mentioned David Cronenberg in between poems, and the Gringo Choir, a traveling troupe of poets made up of Maxwell Kessler, Carrie Rudzinski, Steve Sabrizie and Carlos Williams. Alice gets on the open mic list last-minute and receives a warm reception. Laura and Eboni are out of town tonight, but we stay for a while and party with the other residents and guests before heading back to Alvin’s for some much needed sleep.

DAY 2 – 9/18/10: A bit fatigued from travel and such, we keep it low-key today, just exploring the neighborhood before retiring to Alvin’s to watch a movie (Munich). Sorry to bore you.

Inside the Green Mill
Inside the Green Mill

DAY 3 – 9/19/10: We make our pilgrimage to the Mecca of Slam, the place where it all began, Chicago’s legendary Green Mill jazz club. Alice is set to do a spotlight feature before Cin Salach next week (9/26), but we both decide to sign up for the Slam tonight, along with Carrie and Max from the Gringo Choir, Houston Hughes from Lafayette, Arkansas, and Chicago’s own Gregory Pickett, among others. Marc “So What?” Smith, the man who created the Poetry Slam, does an exemplary job of hosting the open mic, then proceeds to fill the feature slot with a pretty amazing one-man show around the central theme of tattooing. The old man’s still got it, f’sho. Then the Slam begins and I, of course, pull the suicide spot. I do “House,” which gets me a few hisses right off the bat, but then the audience seems to settle in and enjoy it once they realize it’s not actually sexist and I do alright, getting pretty big laughs in the right spots. Alice does “A Love Letter to Annabel Chong” later in the first round and, though she doesn’t make the second round, several people seek her out to express their love of the poem throughout the night. I barely manage to make the second round and get the suicide spot again (!), then fuck it up by doing “The Last Days of Living Free,” which must be too weird for this crowd; I barely manage to finish before they snap me offstage (for those who don’t already know, snapping is the first stage of showing disapproval, followed by stomping and then booing; hissing is for sexism). Gregory Pickett goes on to win the Slam, just barely edging out Max Kessler, whose third-round piece, “Pests,” is my favorite poem of the night. Seriously, check this out:

Alice at Mental Graffiti
Alice at Mental Graffiti

DAY 4 – 9/20/10: Tonight we’re set to feature at Mental Graffiti, at their new location in the Butterfly Social Club, right next door to their former spot at the Funky Buddha Lounge. The Butterfly is a cool place, too, with DVD projection of Waking Life on the wall behind the bar throughout the night. Instead of sharing the feature set, we decide last minute that I will just slam and Alice will rock the feature set solo, which works out well. Her set is very good, but she tells me later she’s decided to work on her banter in between poems, opting to actually have planned jokes and introductions to some poems as well as just improvising and having a conversation with the audience; this new approach will serve her very well in the coming days and weeks. Tim Stafford is an excellent host, as many of you know; throughout the Slam, he and Baz have an extended fake rivalry going, with Baz writing personal messages such as “Tongue-jab my shitbox, Tim” on the scorecards. I do “New Batch” in the first round and get a great response, with big laughs in all the right spots and pretty damn good scores, but only the top two go into the second round, those being Billy Tuggle (one of my all-time favorite people in Slam) and Adrienne Nadeau, a recent Chicago transplant who ends up winning with some funny, poignant and empowering work, including one with rhymes that don’t suck (an unfortunate rarity in non-Hip-Hop poetry shows).

DAY 5 – 9/21/10: Today we decide to take a walk through Lincoln Park and stumble upon the free zoo, about which we both have mixed feelings, as with all zoos. It’s depressing to think about the monotonous and confined lives the animals must lead, but I guess having them in places like this saves many of them from extinction, and the Lincoln Park Zoo in particular apparently does a lot for conservation, including breeding endangered animals and releasing the offspring into the wild. Anyway, on a purely selfish level, it’s cool to see the wide variety of animals housed there, especially the primate house, where there are a lot of fascinating monkeys and apes, including one who flexed his boner at us at one point. Later, we go to Wordplay, the Young Chicago Authors workshop/open mic, facilitated by Robbie Q. Telfer, and find out from one of the young authors that the Lincoln Park Zoo has recently caught a lot of heat about their elephant population, which has died off due to some sort of neglect. This is just word of mouth to us, of course, but it is true that we saw no elephants there. Robbie Q. is the funniest workshop leader I’ve ever seen, at one point telling a young woman who is reluctant to read her work, “Ok, why don’t you just go back out on the street and get some heroin, then?” We read two poems each in the open mic and the young authors, many of whom are still in high school, are very welcoming and receptive; they’re good writers, too. Here’s a memorable quote, from a poem by Tim Seivers, read by Robbie during the workshop: “In this life, we invent ourselves frame by frame; the cartoonist is just a sad rumor.”

Billy Tuggle host of In One Ear

DAY 6 – 9/22/10: Tonight we go to In One Ear, a very popular open mic hosted by Billy Tuggle and Pete Wolff at Heartland Cafe, a really cool place that has not only a big room with a stage for the open mic, but also a bar and, next to that, an organic co-op! The open mic is extremely well-attended; we even run into Adrienne Nadeau again, along with her friend Daytone, who does a very strange poem about his butt. There is a wide variety at this show, including a few stand-up comics (one of whom is hilarious and plays harmonica in between jokes, one of whom just sucks), a sort of gypsy music duo of guitar and accordion that has the whole place pounding on their tables and dancing in their seats, a pair of young women who play a cover of Oasis’s “Wonderwall,” and of course, lots of poetry. Pete buys one of Alice’s books to add to his library of work from every traveling poet who comes through the Heartland; we consider it a great honor to be part of this.

DAY 7 – 9/23/10: The Art Institute of Chicago is free from five to eight pm on Thursdays, so we have three hours to peruse as much as we can; we decide to start with modern art and impressionism. Of course, before that we stood under the famous chrome bean and looked at the skyline. Our favorite piece of art we saw at the Institute was called Human Dust, by Agnes Denes, which consisted of two photographs of cremated human remains coupled with text describing this particular human’s life in detached, statistical terms such as “He had four friends throughout his life. He was loved by 17 people and liked by 310,” etc. My head also nearly exploded when I saw a woman taking a photograph of a photograph of people looking at paintings in the Art Institute of Chicago. So meta. Here are some of our other favorite pieces and photos from the day:

Edgar Degas
Edgar Degas

After the Institute, we go across town back to the Vox Ferus house, where we will be staying for the remainder of our time in Chicago. We stay up late, having a really deep conversation with Laura Yes Yes, who is like some sort of drunken therapist. Really a great person, and very real, like everyone in this house.

DAY 8 – 9/24/10: Having a day off from doing shows, we go to see Scott Pilgrim vs. the World at a musty old theater with terrible seats for four dollars each. A good time.

DAY 9 – 9/25/10: Another day off, so we go to see Black Don’t Crack, an excellent spoken word show featuring our housemates Roger Bonair-Agard, Eboni Hogan and Mahogany Browne, who is staying at the house for a few days before returning to New York, as well as Avery R. Young, who we saw at Real Talk Live our first night in town. A really great show with a lively crowd, including Dasha Kelly from Madison, Wisconsin, who comes back to the house to party with us after the show. Baz has just gotten back in town from doing his one-man show, No One Can Fix You, and Roger is leaving in the morning; it seems like wonderful people are always coming and going here.

DAY 10 – 9/26/10: The big night has arrived: Alice has a spotlight feature before the legendary Cin Salach, a Chicago poet who competed in the first-ever National Poetry Slam as a member of the Green Mill team. We arrive a bit late for the open mic, but manage to catch a few great performances, including Robbie Q. and Mahogany Browne, who reprises my favorite of her poems from the Black Don’t Crack show, “Grolar and Pizzly: An American Tale,” a hilarious story about the love children of a polar and a grizzly bear, two animals who aren’t supposed to mate. Alice goes on after the open mic with a very good short feature and finds that she has won some fans at the Green Mill, a group of friends who saw her last week and loved her work. I leave the Slam early to get to the Darkroom, where Phillip Morris is having his CD release party for his stellar new album, The Truth Campaign. Alice stays for the slam, which Mahogany wins with Emily Rose in second place (Vox Ferus represent!) and joins me later, just in time to see the end of the Bottom Feeders and Associates set, in which I do a little rapping with Spy MC, Sean Anonymous and Samiam; we go on after the opener, a belly dancer named Gypsy Rose. After us is Number 2 and White Jesus, followed by Scarlet Monk and her orchestra, whose set is just unbelievable, with cello, drums and saxophone accompanied by Scarlet’s beautiful vocals and a dancer named Allie who does insane bodily contortions and stares the audience down with unflinching bravado. Here’s a clip of Scarlet Monk that gives you some idea of her awesomeness, but really doesn’t do justice to seeing her live:

Agents of Change, a very energetic ska/punk influenced live band Hip-Hop group, follows Scarlet, and then Mr. Morris himself takes the stage for a brilliant set that is unfortunately too short at about half an hour (the club had to close). If you’ve never heard Phillip’s work, you owe it to yourself to check him out; he is without a doubt one of the best rappers alive. Here’s a sample:

DAY 11 – 9/27/10: Another day off, so we decide to have dinner and a few drinks with Alvin Lau, the first of our wonderful hosts in Chicago. We feel spoiled by all the love we’ve felt from him and our new hosts at Vox Ferus. Chicago rules!

DAY 12 – 9/28/10: We say goodbye to our friends at the Vox Ferus house and head off to the Palatine Poetry Slam, our last show in the Chicago area. Palatine is a very young crowd made up of high school and beginning college students; they are consistently the youngest team at Nationals each year, and the crowd at their Slam is fantastic. We feel extremely welcomed at this show, which is helpful because it is our longest feature set yet. We divide the hour we’ve been given fairly evenly between us and it goes very well; Alice’s new banter is top-notch, with jokes about our “rape-mobile” van and the GPS we’ve nicknamed HAL (after the evil super-computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey) before introducing me with a list of credentials such as my past National Poetry Slam team experience and “he gives great handjobs.” We also premiere our two new group pieces, “Movie Geeks” and “Campaign,” both of which go really well. Between Wordplay and the Palatine Slam, we find that we really enjoy performing for young crowds, and they seem to enjoy us as well. Stay tuned – we’re off to Detroit to meet up with songstress Lauren Begent and poet Seth Walker next, and then New York!

Aroma of Another Country

Well my book is here! Email me if you like one and you can’t get one from me in person. aashindelar@gmail.com

Alice & Ezra’s Send Off Party at the Breaks

Please come on out to our going away party!

Alice & Ezra’s Send Off Party at the Breaks

Time: September 10 at 9:00pm – September 11 at 2:00am
Location: The Blue Nile
2027 East Franklin Avenue
Minneapolis, MN

Come see Alice & Ezra off on their two-month Cross Cuntry Tour (that’s not a typo) with a special edition of the Breaks, featuring members of the St. Paul, Minneapolis and P.O.P. poetry slam teams; Guante; Spy & Sam I Am; Matching Wits; Erok Foret; DJs Elsewhere, Morplay and djo on the 1s and 2s; and more fun stuff! $5.00 18+ 2 for 1 drink specials till 10 pm! Join us!

And here’s a video of my poem Love Letter to Annabel Chong performed at our second Nats bout.

2010 National Poetry Slam

For those of you who haven’t made it out of your air conditioned houses all summer, the National Poetry Slam is coming to St. Paul in August. That means 84 teams from all over the nation and upwards of 400 poets will descend on St. Paul the first week of August and duke it out for the much coveted spot of best slam poetry team over five days of non-stop poetry events and competitions. You can learn more about slam and this years Nationals here http://www.nps2010.com.

Come out and support my team Punch Out Poetry, the first all women’s team. Our two preliminary bouts are:

Tuesday, August 3rd
Artist Quarter, St. Paul
7pm-9pm

We’re up against our home town rivals St. Paul Soapboxing, Urbana from New York, and Eclectic from Baton Rouge. This should be one of the hottest prelim matches of the events.

Wednesday, August 4th
Artist Quarter, St. Paul
9pm-11pm

This should be another raucous match against Piedmont from Winston Salem; Respect Da Mic from Charlotte, NC; and Slam Richmond, VA.

Captive

This is a short story I wrote for the Prism Open Mic. Enjoy!

Captive

Eighteen years ago, Philbert Ramirez found his pet wandering the empty streets one quiet suburban morning. One look and he knew she had been sent for him, that she was meant for him. She was so beautiful, so innocent. He snatched her up and brought her home to his barren wife. When she was young, he loved her as a father. As she grew, he loved her even more.

Mr. Underfoot was always quite rude in the mornings. Years of captivity and mental abuse had caused his eyes to turn cold. At night, that shard that floated across his jet black pupil, as he stared up from her bedside while she drifted to sleep, often threw Mary Kristofferson into fitful, slightly erotic nightmares of asphyxiation. In the morning she’d sneeze herself awake, her nostrils and mouth full of fine calico hair.

Mrs. Kristofferson had never know a companion quite like Mr. Underfoot. There had been years when she’d kept many pets close at hand. Some nights her bed would be so crowded with warm bodies that she could find no purchase for her own tired head. In old age Mrs. Kristofferson had become a simple woman, trading finely polished mahogany and heavy velvet curtains for her former feline menagerie.

A well-kept haven is still a silent one without companionship. So when the breeder presented her with Mr. Underfoot, explaining how his caramel, chocolate, and white sugar coating made him an anomaly amongst his sex, she knew she had to possess him. The breeder called him chimera.



”He is the result of overly zealous genes,” she said “too complete genetically, two distinctly separate fertilized embryos merged together. In felines this manifests itself in their coat. He is essentially a man trapped in a woman’s body, infertile and impotent.” Mrs. Kristofferson had always heard the word meant impossible dream.

Mrs. Kristofferson took him home. Adaptation is essential to survival. Mr. Underfoot quickly adapted to her routine, though he often missed the out of doors, the hunt. There wasn’t a rat or mouse to be had in this house. Occasionally, depression would set in and he would spend whole days just sleeping. For the most part, he just went along with her game. He would follow her around the house, purr when she pet him, eat the food she put in front of him. His greatest joy came from the odd moth or wasp that would slip past her fly swatter, and her 800 watt vacuum cleaner, and her citronella spray. He would hunt those things for hours. Tease them in and then let out some slack. When they finally came to rest between his jaws, he savored their undomesticated flavor as he slowly ground their crispy limbs between his teeth and licked his lips clean of wing dust. He did love Mrs. Kristofferson, but who’s to say that’s not because she was the only thing around for him to love.

Their favorite pastime was to spy on the neighbors, Mrs. Kristofferson always in her bathrobe and Mr. Underfoot well-fed and sedated. They would perch in front of her kitchen window together, right over the sink. It offered a generous view of her east facing neighbors backyard to the left and a smidgen of street and front sidewalk to the right. From there they could sit in relative privacy and discern a good deal of the neighborhood events. Mrs. Kristofferson would lean over her kitchen sink, one hand stroking Mr. Underfoot’s long hairy back as the other peeled open her immaculate white blinds.


”What’s he building in there?” she would croak as she glared into the east facing neighbors backyard.

“What are all of those tents, and ropes, and tarps for? That fence must be six feet tall. You wouldn’t like to live there, now would you, Mr. Underfoot?” Mr. Underfoot would arch his back and nuzzle her hand in response.
She’d always been a talkative woman. She would spend hours on the phone with the neighborhood gals checking off each morsel of collected rumor like to do list tasks, rattling them off like candy wrapper jokes. After she got Mr. Underfoot she never wanted to meet up for coffee, or go for walks. She found she preferred her easy chair and a lap full of fur. Once in awhile the ladies would come to her. She’d convince them to pick up a carton of milk or bread on the way. Eventually, she discovered grocery home delivery and one day realized she hadn’t left the house in nearly three weeks.

At night, her previously oven warm hands ran cold over Mr. Underfoot’s exposed belly. Maybe that is why one crisp October morning her conscience played a subconscious role in her actions. Mrs. Kristofferson did something she’d never done before, not ever in her solitary life as a cat lady. She left the door ajar. When she went out to get the Sunday paper, Mr. Underfoot slipped right out from under her foot. Before she could bend her stiff back to snatch him, he dashed under a prickly bush, his tri-colored tail twitching freedom.

As night fell, there was not a single scratch or mew at her door. She mustered her nerves and unbolted the lock. Safe beneath two wool scarves, a stocking cap, a ski mask, a pair of fingerless gloves and an old man’s trench coat she took to the neighborhood streets, armed with a bag of Meow Mix and pockets full of catnip.


“Mr. Underfoot,” she whispered at her wilted azaleas.


“Mr. Underfoot,” she walked along the neighbors fence.


“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she pleaded with the darkness beneath her back deck.


“Mr. Underfoot!” she shook Meow Mix up at the night sky.


It was then that she heard those deep exhausted sobs for the first time. She recognized the tone and, confused, reached for her own cheek. When her fingers came back dry, she quickly spread the cat food around her yard and ran back inside.

The next morning, over coffee and toast, Mrs. Kristofferson scratched out a dozen missing cat flyers in black sharpie. After she washed her dishes and peered through the blinds, as was her morning routine, she left the house to post her flyers around the neighborhood. She worked until every telephone pole and coffee shop and billboard advertised her cause. By the time she headed home, dusk had already started to creep in. Her house was bigger than when she’d left it.

She lay down for bed and, before falling asleep, peered over the edge. No, they were not there. Mr. Underfoot’s frightfully empty eyes no longer stared up at her from the floor.

The next day, she could do nothing but wait. The whole day she felt utterly incapable, believing it was only a matter of hours before he returned. Everything felt too intense to approach, every bit of her too sensitive to touch. Eventually, she reached a certain numbness, a sweet euphoria, a complete clarity of mind, one that she imagined prayer would bring if she could have believed it when all she did was sit on her knees. She’d been here before, and there was always that same voice telling her the same thing. It is gone. Nothing matters. You are alone.

When she awoke to her mouth furless and dry, Mrs. Kristofferson knew it was time. She got up, and for the first time in years, left her robe where it hung on the bedpost.

The sound of her knuckles against the first wooden front door made her bones stiffen up and her mouth turn dry. She was just about to leave when her neighbor to the west opened up. A young man appeared in the door in boxers and a tee-shirt.

“Yep.”

Chatty Mrs. Kristofferson couldn’t peel apart her lips.

“Can I help you?” He shivered in his door frame.

She held up a black sharpie flyer.

“Saw that. . .” he said.

Mrs. Kristofferson let out a little yip.

“. . .on a telephone pole.”

“Oh.” A deep sigh was all she could manage.

“Sorry.” He took the flyer and rushed back inside away from the cold.

Mrs. Kristofferson methodically worked her way to the end of the block, knocking at every door as she went and saving the east facing neighbors for last. From out front the house looked much more welcoming then the backyard view from her kitchen window. Mrs. Kristofferson started up the walkway. The house was dark inside, the windows were hung with sheer lace curtains. As she admired them, she noticed they moved. Someone peeled apart the immaculate white curtains and peered out.

“Disgusting,” Mrs. Kristofferson ironically said to herself.

A woman with dark tired eyes answered the door before she could even knock.

“Hello.” Mrs. Kristofferson said.

“My husband isn’t home.”

“Well that’s ok.”

“You should go, now.”

“Well I just have a question.” The woman started to shut the door. Mrs. Kristofferson put out her foot to stop it.

“My cat got out, I think he’s in your back yard.” She managed between clenched teeth.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s not there.”

“I mean, cats will go anywhere you know and he’s been gone now for two days. Do you mind if I just take a look?” The door slammed in her face.

That night she dreamt Mr. Underfoot had dug a hole and slipped beneath the east neighbor’s chain-link, corrugated plastic fence., then, with all the guile of a heedless feline, marched right in under those tents. He sniffed his way through the pitch black, nuzzled every sharp corner, and seductively ran his furry side right up against something warm and smooth in the dark. A man, with hands the size of butcher knives reached down out of blackness. He took Mr. Underfoot and spread him open across his work bench, warmed his cold fingertips on feline flesh, painted the wood red, and munched kitty entrails for lunch.

The muffled sound of mewling jolted her awake. She sat up in bed, her hands entwined in cold damp sheets. Her ears strained. Her eyes opened wide. Then she heard it again, those deep exhausted sobs. Her shoulders shook with longing, her fingertips still came up dry.

Early the next morning, before coffee and toast, Mrs. Kristofferson knocked on the door of the neighbors to the east a second time. At first no one answered. She knocked again, and waited almost two minutes, then pressed her face to the glass and tried to peer inside. It was too dark to see anything. She craned her neck around one side of the house. No one there. Then the other side of the house. No one there either. So she puffed up her chest and headed towards the backyard.

“My husbands not home!” The woman had her hands on Mrs. Kristofferson’s shoulder. She shuddered and tried to place the last time she’d been touched.

“I . . . I’m sorry. I just . . . I thought I heard my cat.”

“I told you he’s not back there.”

“Could I just have a look. He hides, he only comes to me.”

“No.”

The rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon, Mrs. Kristofferson planted herself on a stool in front of her kitchen window with her favorite novel, shades wide open. The cover and title page were both missing.  Mostly she just flipped through it and read her favorite passages. Which was a good thing, because at one point she caught a mother who had just pushed a stroller up the sidewalk into her window frame picking one of her roses. The woman jumped when Mrs. Kristofferson rapped a finger on the glass and scowled down at her. Later, she watched silently as a group of teenagers skipped school to steal into one of their own homes while no one was around.

It wasn’t until almost three pm when she was deeply immersed in a passage involving ripped panty hose that Philbert Ramirez came home. It was his eyes looking in that made her lift hers from the page. She trembled like a caged animal, and quickly pulled down the shades.

That night, Mrs. Kristofferson pulled Carharts and rain boots from her closet, slung a fully loaded tool belt around her squishy hips, grabbed the bag of Meow Mix and filled her pockets with catnip. She crept out her own back door and sat on her knees before the fence.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she whispered as she reached into the tool belt.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” One link at a time snapped apart beneath her garden sheers.

“Mr. Underfoot. I know you’re in there.” She pried open a cat sized hole in the bottom of the fence.

“You must be hungry by now.” She shook the Meow Mix.

“Meow,” and Mr. Underfoot scuttled right out. Mrs. Kristofferson grabbed him and held him to her chest, kissed his neck, and stuffed her mouth with his fur. When she looked up, a sudden fright caused her to dig her nails into his back. Mr. Underfoot hissed and clawed his way out of her grasp and ran back under the fence.

Two identical blonde girls stood over her, their hair glowing in the streetlight, their fingers wrapped in the chain link fence. One of the girls bent to pick him up.

“He’s mine,” Mrs. Kristofferson said.

“We know,” the younger girl said.

“Why didn’t you bring him back to me?”

“We couldn’t,” the older one said.

“Mommy wanted to keep him.”

“She said he wasn’t in there!”

“Not her,” the older one said.

“What do you mean not her? Who’s your Mommy then?”

The two girls pointed towards the tents. Mrs. Kristofferson had never really noticed how expansive they were, how these tents covered the whole backyard, how not a single blade of grass was visible beneath them.

“Please,” she stretched her hands through the whole in the fence. The two girls giggled and ducked back under the tents.

“Come back!” Mrs. Kristofferson shouted. She shoved her arms through the hole up to her shoulders, wriggled as if she could force her way through.

“Bring him back here!”

She grabbed her garden sheers and ripped the hole bigger until she was able to lie flat on her belly and wriggle through.

It was dark and musty under the tents. She couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her face. She felt her way along the tarp, searching for an opening, found one and then came up against another wall of tent and had to search again, with only her fingertips to guide her. She could hear them, giggling and chattering, so she headed toward the sounds, then towards a light that seemed to be coming from the center of the yard. The walls of the tent grew thinner as the light grew warmer and soon she pushed her way through the last wall.

The space was tiny. Clothing and dishes lay all around. There were two dressers, drawers open and spilling their contents onto the floor. The girls sat on the floor cross-legged, with Mr. Underfoot between them. In the back of the tent there was a twin-sized bed, hidden behind the two dressers. There was a woman sitting on the bed, watching the girls, her blond hair ratted and falling over her shoulders, her ankle chained to the bed post.

“That’s my cat,” Mrs. Kristofferson said to the woman. “He snuck in under here. I came to get him.” The woman said nothing. “I’m taking him now.” Mrs. Kristofferson moved toward the two girls. “I’ll be taking him home now.” As she reached for Mr. Underfoot and took him into her arms, the other three looked up. Mrs. Kristofferson turned on her heels and came eyeballs to barrel sockets with the mean end of a shotgun. Philbert Ramirez’s shot gun.

“I. . I. . .this is my cat. I just came for my cat.”

He cocked his gun. Mr. Underfoot dug his claws into her shoulder. Mrs. Kristofferson held on to his wriggling body with all her strength.

“I didn’t do anything. I won’t tell anyone. I just need my cat.”

He narrowed his eyes down the length of the barrel.

“Please. I’m sorry he climbed your fence. He’s mine.”

“Get out.” Philbert gestured toward the exit with the shotgun.

Mrs. Kristofferson didn’t hesitate, she didn’t look back, not at the girls or at the woman on the bed. She left. Mr. Underfoot under her arm, and felt her way back through the tents without any trouble at all.

It wasn’t until four weeks later that Mrs. Kristofferson read about the woman in the paper. They said her name was Laycee. The morning she disappeared, her bus had come a few minutes early. They stood in front of their house, Laycee on her brand new bicycle free of training wheels, and her father’s hands around her waist to keep her from falling. She brushed off her father’s embarrassingly public embrace and ran to catch the bus. Filbert intercepted, threw her in the back seat of his car, and drove off, Laycee’s father chasing them all the way down the block on that brand new bike.

The Fountain

It’s ok,
we’re almost there.

The day you came home with the news
a tree began to grow in our living room.
You told me your body could no longer take it,
that we’d better hold fast to the days we still had left.
Like the Mayfly,
you believed we only ever get one sunset.
I told you
that life, like anything else, can be trapped, chained, tamed.

For weeks before the walls of our bedroom
absorbed screams and rained plaster.
It was a sound these walls,
so familiar with the cries of love-making,
had never heard before.
On those nights, a silhouetted stranger
crowded your side of the bed.

By dinner time the tree was already four feet tall.
It’s bark a rusty color red, it’s branches heavy with buds.
So that night we moved our bed in under it.
We gazed up through its branches,
two wild creatures that
watched the spry leaves push free of their cocoons,
unfurl their wings, and dry on gusts of our flesh and sweat breath.
That night I swore I would not let you pass from this life so easily.
I would not rest till I solved this.
I would lead you to the fountain
and together we would drink from her lip.

Death is a disease like any other! There is a cure!

I followed every path till its end,
turned every coin,
opened every chest.
They were all empty.

I even sacrificed myself to the auric gate
shut tight with impossible moral combinations.
but my key, rusty and twisted, could not turn in the lock.

I fought until my hands grew too numb to feel your flesh beneath them.
I dove into veins, swam through the blues and reds
of a nervous system web.

All this, but still
When I reached
I could not touch it.
When I lifted my brush
I could not paint it.

Tree rings wrap themselves around my left arm.
Thick bands for every year I have spent
drenched and saturated by your rainstorm.
Thin for every year I have stood lonely in the desert.
The harder I search for the answer
the thinner they become.

One night the tree begins to bloom.
It is so beautiful.
I almost mistake your hand on my face
for her weeping branches.
But you tell me,
lips sanguine with awe,
that you are no longer afraid.
As our bodies cling and tense and pulse together
the bark on our tree begins to crack and curl back.
When her golden flowers drop and decay on our sweaty backs
we do not notice.
Afterwards, even has my heart slows to its normal rhythm,
I begin to search again,
and while my back is turned
you slip away.

I wish there had been someone to tell me,
It’s ok
You’re already there.

The City Trailer

Check out this trailer for a local feature film due out in Spring 2009, directed by James Vogel, starring Ezra Stead and Greg Hernandez. I make a brief appearance as an unfortunate victim.  Read the synopsis and watch The City myspace page for the release date and screenings. Also, come on out at support local film at Save The City at the Bryant Lake Bowl on January 22th, hip hop, stand-up, and burlesque.


The City Trailer from James Vogel on Vimeo.

Hit the Pavement

This is what it feels like when you go down. Special thanks to Joe for eating pavement!


Hit the Pavement from Alice Shindelar on Vimeo.

Bike Cam

My brother and I built a camera mount for my bike. The mount itself is very simple. We took the pan-head off of a mini-tripod, the kind that is used for your standard consumer digital camera, so that we could have a simple pan and tilt system without trying to build it ourselves. Then we attached the head to a pre-threaded pipe that is approximately 7″ long and 1″ in diameter. The pipe came with a metal cap that screwed onto either end of it. Luckily, most tripod heads come with a hole for attaching a single leg in the center. Finding the right screw to fit the hole was easy since most tripods, digital cameras and camcorders alike, use 1/4-20″ screws. Some also use 3/8″ screws but I haven’t run into that yet. The real trick was attaching this to the bike. We had an old green Fuji with a bike rack sitting around so we attached it to that with some hose clamps. This proved to be the most challenging part, once you get those little bastards open they never want to clamp shut again! The real ticket was wrapping the pipe with the pan-head mounted to it in an old inner-tube. Otherwise we would have had metal on metal between the bike rack and the camera mount. This simple little layer of rubber seems to absorb the majority of the vibrations caused by the bicycle. It may not be the perfect way to create tracking shots but I’m pretty impressed with the results myself.

Check it!


Bikecam from Alice Shindelar on Vimeo.

Thanks Joe!

Sunrise sur la Seine

 

Hello world! Yay the sun is rising on Alice on the Internet! Some of you may have been loyal readers years ago. Some of you may be new to Alice on the Internet. Either way, this is going to be some of the old and some of the new and hopefully something for everyone.

The idea is for this to be more of a working portfolio than a blog. I promise I won’t bore you with a daily op-ed piece on life as an extremely average american white girl. Instead look for some short stories and poetry, frequent updates on movies I am watching and books I am reading, occasional essays, and the word on the natural food industry.

On another note, what I ask of you is that you please comment liberally!

Right now I have archived a handful of pieces from back in the day and two newer pieces that have been written within the year. If you haven’t read them yet, great! Feast! If you know all the old pieces tell me if you still like them, or if you ever liked them.

Cheers friends!