Post-Fringe

Fringe is over. After two months of planning, managing, scheduling, re-scheduling, writing, directing, acting, rehearsing, designing, and changing. Great response, I am proud of my actors and my work. Thanks to all who came and supported me, or who supported me long distance.

I've been trying to identify how I feel right now. Sometimes I look at pictures to help figure things like that out.

The first thing I googled was "Empty Bowl" without knowing exactly why.

So I guess this is how I feel.

Ghost Writer

Of course, my first play, working title Ghost Writer, would have to be about writer's block. But how delightful that I broke through right in step with my main character. Six pages of the first draft completed, and ready for auditions tonight. Will be performed at the Westmont Fringe Festival April 20-24.

Insider's trivia: the two characters, Sophie and Cleo, are named after my first two cats.

On the Infinite Superiority of Cats to Dogs

My mother's dog is hyperventilating. Has been for about 30 minutes now, ever since I stepped into the shower to enjoy what I had hoped would be a luxurious 15 minutes of muscle-melting bliss, just me and the Ella Fitzgerald song I've had in my head all day. I'd barely gotten to step one of the shampoo instructions, lather, when I heard over my own self-serenade: "Black coffee, love's a hand me down brew..." Knock, knock, thud! Strange, very strange. A panicked mental checklist: empty house, parents and sister not due back for hours, doors locked, windows locked, shit--the chimney! wait, no chimney... Oh. The dog. My mother's exceptionally needy Schnoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle) and my primary rival for attention and affection when I return home. Hadn't mom mentioned last night that Abbey (the mutt's deceptively demure name) had been acting a bit anxious whenever someone got in the shower? I condescended to the animal's needy nature and interrupted my Ella impersonation with a monotone "Abbey, its fine, you crazy dog." This only provoked more frantic scratching at the door. How many times had I told my mother that dogs only respond to tone and repeated commands, not full sentences, thus rendering her scoldings of "Abbey, dear, it is really very rude to dig through Jessie's suitcase and shred her favorite pair of panties to pieces." completely ineffective. Perhaps the dog had mistaken my soulful croonings for the tonal equivalent of a cry for help. I adjusted my voice to the absurd cooing women seem to instinctually take on when talking to babies--human or animal. "Don't worry Abbs, it is just a shower, stop running your head into the door, take a breath, that's a good girl!" The attack on the door stopped. For about thirty seconds. Then she continued with renewed panic--whining, thumping, and scratching so frantically I was sure the door would have a hole in the middle soon if I didn't do something.

Reluctantly, I grabbed a towel from the rack (in retrospect, I have no idea why I did this. Perhaps I was subconsciously afraid to further scar Abbey's delicate psychology with my nudity) and opened the door. Again, I don't know how I thought this would help--my track history of calming Abbey down is pathetic, if not downright shameful. But there we were: me dripping suds and Abbey practically foaming at the mouth, in a brief showdown before she bolted between my legs to the tub. With her tail between her trembling little legs, she growled and snarled at the viscous jets of water still hitting the porcelain bath. For a moment, I was touched--maybe the mutt thought she was protecting me. But I still had a shower to finish, and this scruffy ball of nerves was making it damn near impossible. So I left the door open and climbed back in the shower, thinking she would be calm if she could supervise. Again, I was mistaken. Abbey tore down half the shower curtain in the frantic attempt to join me in the shower. Panic was in her eyes and she dove paws first into the basin of her fear. This would not do. After much pleading and cooing, I lured her out of the bathroom and halfway down the stairs with the tonal promise of lovely safe things before bolting back up and slamming the door before she could figure out how to turn her body around on the narrow stairs. By then, I was freezing, my hair was slimy with conditioner residue, and I had dog hair stuck to my wet legs and feet. Abbey was back at the door full force, so I had no choice but to rinse off in record time to relieve her stress and mine. Since then, she has not been further than ten inches from my ankles and whines every time I walk into the bathroom to grab the hairdryer or hang up my towel.

The cat, Mercy, meanwhile, has been curled up on the couch, guarding my now cold cup of tea and new book of poetry until my return, at which point she will doing one of several indeterminable things. First, she will show slight annoyance at my intrusion of her resting place, stretch out every link of her long back, and relocate herself on another cushion nearby. From that distance I can observe her graceful contortions while I write, and perhaps catch her gaze as she grooms herself and share a moment of self-satisfied indifference. Or, she may choose to accept my company, reach out a tiny paw and bat the ball of yarn I am knitting onto the floor, where we will watch it slowly unravel until she pounces on it with playful precision. I might crumple a piece of paper and play a lazy, low matainence game of fetch with her for several minutes, until she decides she has had enough and leaves the paper behind in favor of the window sill where she watches birds and invisible things in raptured silhouette. Watching her inspires me to write poetry, or to have an affair with a manic-depressive poet. But for now, she is my only poet-lover. Abbey, on the other hand, is like an infomercial with the volume turned way up, yelling at me about things I don't need. Right now, she needs to be walked.

Post rehearsal musings

Tonight I held my first rehearsal for my final directing project. I am adapting Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tale The Swineherd with some heavy Commedia Dell'arte influences. Or at least, that's the idea now. John told us in class today to hold on tightly and let go loosely. That really resonated with me because I think I might live by that principle outside of the theatre too, and I'm not sure if that is the secret to life or a source of major issues. It could apply to people, places, ideas, dreams...Whatever is present is real and we should dwell completely in that moment with energized commitment. If we get caught up in regrets about past moments or anxieties about future uncertainties, then we fail to focus any attention on the only time we can actually influence, the present. To live presently is to be fully engaged with the potential of every moment, to be intoxicated with the dynamics of reality. And in that place of presence, there is nothing else to do but hold on tightly, because everything that is is, and you are immersed in it. Tomorrow cannot be held; Yesterday is the vapor of memory.

And once we have grasped what it is to cling to the present, then we must be ready to unclench our fist and let it go again at any moment.

Nobel Peace "Prize?"

It's my four day weekend, so I have real time to write again, but don't get your hopes too high devoted readers--there likely won't be another entry until November 1, when rehearsals and performances for Bald Soprano end and free time returns. Until then, I'll share my thoughts on the buzz about the Nobel Peace Prize before the media finds something else to bash on.

I first found out Friday morning in class when I was sneaking peaks at the New York Times headlines on my iPhone while simultaneously participating in a discussion about the complete absence of agape love in our culture's love stories (maybe another blog). When the headline caught my eye, in surprise I accidentally inhaled my scalding Earl Grey tea. After recovering enough to breathe again, reading a few articles online, talking to some smart people, and reflecting on my own, I have this to say.

To be sure, the enraged conservative cries of "But he hasn't even done anything yet!" are not completely off the mark, but I really don't think the Norwegian committee has suddenly turned into brainless idealists or screaming star-struck fans. I think the word "Prize" is what is tripping people up. Prizes go to people who have crossed the finish line first and Obama has barely taken a first lap. But in the press release, words like effort, vision, hope, and future are key. So instead of picturing a big shiny medal or an A+ hanging on the White House refrigerator, I encourage you to reflect on the analogy my friend Ben Taylor offered. He said that the Nobel Prize for Obama is like infant baptism. In front of the whole world congregation, Obama has been marked as a man who will work for world peace. His identity has been set publicly, and everyone who witnessed it is called to assist him in "the way he should go, [so that] when he is old he will not turn from it."

My conception of American politics has a significant European influence. I was in Germany when Bush was in his second term and I came to detest my American accent because of the associations that went along with it then. My new German friends pulled me into tourist shops full of anti-Bush tee-shirts and mugs--some of the most startling depicted Bush's face next to Hitler's with German phrases I'm grateful I couldn't translate. I was in Scotland, Ireland, England, and France during the election season and encountered either ambivalence towards American politics or complete support and yes, hope, for Obama's election. French shop keepers teased (maybe?) that they would only sell me things if I swore on the American flag that I voted for Obama. In pubs and parks, I was able to have conversations with people about international politics, instead of feeling attacked. I returned to England after Obama was made President, and although there are valid frustrations with some of the policies, just as there are among Americans, the general attitude is still positive.

This Nobel Prize is the most significant proof of the shift in the world's perception of America from a place of selfish, ignorant, aggressive power-wielding to a country that is trying desperately to get our shit together so we can use our influence to make the world a more peaceful place. You don't have to put a bumper sticker on your car, but every American should be on the sidelines of the World Peace racetrack cheering Obama on and keeping him hydrated as he runs this very difficult race to the end.

Meditation While Sun-bathing in Northern Idaho

It is inevitable,

as earth turns

as weather changes,

as time passes,

that the Great Sun

will be eclipsed by a cloud.

And for a time,

its warmth and light

grow cold and dim.

We, slaves to comfort and convenience,

scramble for blankets, fireplaces, and flashlights

to replace what we believe is gone

with cheap knock-offs

of our life source.

But it is inevitable, with

the turning of the earth,

the changing of the weather,

the passing of time,

that the clouds will drift on

to reveal again the Great Sun,

where it has been all along.

At this moment

At this moment, I am thinking about the importance and the difficulty of being in the present. A good way to check yourself out of the past or the future or wherever you typically dwell is to finish the sentence "At this moment..." Repeat this as many times as it takes to be exactly where you are, because only when we are still are we still moving into another intensity (ref. Eliot).

At this moment, I am sitting at a small table in the wood lodge style restaurant bar The Korner Market, drinking stale coffee with a combo of Amaretto, French Vanilla, and Irish Cream Coffee-mates. This goes against all my coffee philosophies, but since I am in Priest Lake, Idaho, the paradise of my childhood summers that has likely never seen the polished steel of an espresso machine and hopefully never will, I am content.

At this moment, the book "Life of Pi" is sitting in my purse under my chair with an imaginary bookmark in the middle. I am eager to return to it.

At this moment, I am surrounded by four flat screen tvs mounted on the wood-paneled walls, surrounded by the array of hunting photographs, american flags, ancient logging gear, and animal body parts that make up the Idaho aesthetic. Clockwise, the tvs are playing the Nascar race, the Tampa Bay and Houston someones football game, Tiger Woods putting, and the weather channel. It is difficult for me to think of four subjects that I am less interested in. The drone of a Nascar race, however, is familiar background music to my Sunday afternoons, and if I thought hard enough I may be able to find some Taoist philosophy in the circular track. For that, though, I require better coffee.

At this moment, for all of my teasing, I am grateful for the rustic simplicity and beauty of life here in Northern Idaho. I feel parts of myself, long denied or buried, stirred to life with the taste of huckleberries, the smell of wet cedar, and a smile from my slow-speaking, flannel-wearing waiter.

2am obsessions

It's 2am, I should be asleep, but instead I am window shopping online. You know how it is more fun to shop with a buddy? Well, given the circumstances, my buddy is Blogger. Here are a few of my favorite finds.

First, a gorgeous asymmetrical bookshelf from www.lavindo.com. In the past year or so, I've somehow transitioned from an aesthetic driven by color to one driven by line. Naturally, this leads me to the pieces that capture the calligraphic simplicity of asian art.

And there you have it, a Chinese serving tray with actual engraved calligraphy. Not so sure I'd like this as well in person, it would have to be really matte and I'd want a translation before I set it in front of my guests for tea.
This necklace from www.imooi.com also has lovely simple lines, and I love the contrast of the unfinished wood against the silver. Although there are other pieces on the site that I prefer to this, I do like birds, which represents another emerging motif in my style. I realized that, subconsciously, the last few things I have purchased for myself have been feather shaped earrings, a dress with a feather print, and a henna tattoo of a bird. Symbolic? C'est possible.
I found this remarkable piece on n-e-r-v-o-u-s.com, an experimental jewelry company. They use nontraditional materials, like this necklace of silicone rubber, and draw inspiration for designs from both nature and computation. This necklace reminds me of a picture in my high school Biology book that I should have been learning about but was drawing instead. Plant cells or art--you decide!

If you like "modern organic living" then you will love www.amenityhome.com. Again, with the simple lines, plus, I've always had a soft spot for soft things. Their pillows are especially pretty.

East Meets West (the back story)

Today I scheduled myself to write about Buddah and Jesus, or more broadly, Buddhism and Christianity. It's not an entirely recent collision in my life. Although I have been raised Christian in America, the East just seems to keep crossing the borders. It started with Mrs. Martin, my sixth grade English teacher at Kellogg Middle School in Idaho, who introduced me to both Shakespearean theatre and Zen poetry. Imagine instructing a group of 11 year olds to listen to the silence for ten minutes and then write about it; a remarkable woman to say the least. During that entire year, I would spend most lunch breaks sitting on the carpeted corner in her room writing haikus about the sound of the radiator and the buzzing of a fly. It wasn't the most popular year of my life, to say the least, but I learned to treasure stillness, a quality I found seriously lacking almost everywhere else. After Mrs. Martin, there was Alex Ruff, the first boy I fell in love with. I was fourteen, he was a self-professed Buddhist-Atheist-Anarchist. We would sit backstage during rehearsal for the spring play and he would describe in great philosophical detail his mix-tape ideology. As a three-month anniversary present, he gave me the book "Buddhism for Beginners" and a yin-yang necklace; I gave him a Bible.

After the particularly gnarly teenage heartbreak that was my breakup with Alex, I subconsciously broke up with Buddhism as well. Or so I thought. I discovered after months of near obsession with the Beat writers of the 1960s that they were heavily influenced by Eastern thought and practice; they were the Dharma-bums, as Kerouac put it. Turns out that most writers or artists who I am fascinated and inspired by have Eastern influence: Leonard Cohen spent almost 10 years in a Zen Buddhist centre, T.S. Eliot studied Hinduism and other eastern philosophies at great length, and Thomas Merton fully incorporated a study of eastern mysticism, especially Zen, into his Christian faith and prayer life.

Last fall, Elizabeth Hess introduced me to the Tao Te Ching, or Book of the Way. It a collection of short chapters, or poems, that are central to Taoist thought. I used the book to explicate an Eliot poem, but as I studied it for my essay, the bits of Eastern wisdom that seemed so paradoxical at first read began to churn in my head at all times of the day. Ask anyone on England Semester: for about a month I was Taoist Girl. Every conversation, every class discussion, every church service, every walk outside--all I could do was find connections with Taoist thought and life. After returning from England Semester, I bought my own book of the Tao Te Ching as well as several other books on the subject to begin fleshing out my uneducated interest. I'll also be taking a class in the fall on Buddhism, but since it a Westmont Religious Studies class, it is about where Christianity and Buddhism meet and where they depart.

I've thought quite a bit on that point, both theoretically and personally. Personally, I'm hyper aware of the balance between my Christian faith and my Buddhist "studies." To clarify- whenever I pick up the i Ching to learn about Chinese divination and leave my Bible sitting on the shelf (or in my suitcase, rather), I feel somewhat conflicted. But on the other hand, I feel my own faith being strengthened and clarified by studying another. Buddhism, from what I have learned so far, does not contradict Christianity. Suzuki once said, "Zen teaches nothing; it merely enables us to wake up and become aware. It does not teach, it points." What is true in Buddhism is also true in Christianity, if not as central for most Christian's faith practices. Buddhism is about compassion, peace, surrendering ego and finding emptiness to be filled with God. What I have found most appealing is the Eastern embrace of paradox and "unknowing." Faith is not just a "right" doctrine and regular church attendance, it is a direct experience of God in our deepest self, whether found in a teaching, a walk outside, or a piece of art. In studying Buddhism, I also realize what is so profoundly different about Christianity. A knowable Savior, grace, and forgiveness. Words that get tossed around so often in sermons that we forget what they really mean. Without encountering other faiths, how do we know what we have?

Bishop Ambrose said in the fourth century that "all that is true, by whomever it has been said, is from the Holy Spirit". I've heard the same gist said by several Westmont professors: "All truth is God's truth." I encourage everyone to take a trip to the spirituality section at your local bookstore, step on to someone else's prayer mat, and empty yourself to find what is true.

To drive or not to drive; that is the question.

Hello, my name is Jessica Drake, and I do not have a drivers license. Upon hearing this news, if you did not already know it, you are likely experiencing one of several reactions. In the past four years that I have been eligible to have a license and have chosen not to get one, I've heard about every possible response. Most commonly, the reaction follows this pattern:

1. Raised eyebrows, indicating surprise and possible disbelief.

2. A question, choked out like a laugh that got stuck, "Are you serious?"

3. A quick social check, a straightening of posture, and a holding of breath in fear that they have offended me by not knowing about the disability I surely have to prevent me from this rite of passage.

4. Once assured that I am indeed fully functioning, the questions follow: "Don't you want to drive?" "Are you afraid?" "How do you get ANYWHERE?"

5. Then the declarative statement: "Driving is the best thing in the world once you get used to it."

6. The persuasive techniques: "Driving aimlessly really clears my head, it would be good for you." "Shouldn't you just get it, in case of an emergency?" "You should start practicing now, so you aren't a hazard when you do have to drive."

7. Finally, a look of either pity, frustration, or endearment that ends the conversation.

In response to that reoccurring encounter, I have a stockpile of explanations and excuses that I pull from depending on my conversation partner's socio-economic status, geographical location, age, politics, and hairstyle. The weather and my mood are also highly influential factors. Several of my favorite go-to reasons are as follows:

1. I've never really needed a car. Friends drove me where I needed to be in high school and no cars allowed the first two years on campus at Westmont.

2. A fit of anxiety overtakes me every time I enter a car from the left side.

3. I've saved a ton of money not paying for gas, insurance or car payments the last four years.

4. Save the earth, man, pollution is gross.

5. I'm planning on living in Europe anyway, no need for cars there.

6. Public transportation RULES!

7. The thought of being that crazy old lady in the corner house who has never driven a day in her life really appeals to me.

8. Being chauffeured makes me feel famous.

These have all surely factored in to my decision in some way or another, or at least I have realized them as benefits along the way. Honestly, I think I just missed that gene in every red-blooded American teenager that compels them to beg their parents to drive them to the DMV as a sixteenth birthday present. Really, it's not a gene at all, it's the craving for independence, and for most teenagers, that's a set of car keys. But while all my sophomore peers were climbing into the driver's seat of their mom's mini-van, I was boarding a plane to Germany for a month. I lived in a small Bavarian town where cars where not allowed in the city center and everyone was free to walk and bike along cobbled streets. Walking down a busy street, stopping to people watch or window-shop, or even strolling alone on a forest trail, that's what clears my head. It's an immediate sensory experience: the smells, the sounds of life happening, the cracks in the pavement. Following speed limit signs in an air-conditioned metal box on wheels is not as appealing to me.

So okay, I'm being idealistic and romantic here. Of course cars serve an important purpose, and of course we can not all live in walkable cities. I don't actually have a serious aversion to cars, in fact I've spent uncountable hours traveling in them, just always in the passenger side or backseat. I've seen most of this country fast-forward through a window thanks to touring with the Continentals and my family's crush on road trips (try Idaho to Kansas, through the Dakotas, that'll take the glamour out of driving). I've probably stopped at every rest stop between Seattle and San Diego. I really don't feel as if I've sacrificed any of my independence so far in life because I haven't spent more than 30 minutes of it behind the wheel of a car. In fact, if anything, I've had more freedom to experience more of the world. If you have never been on an Amtrak bus before, you are really missing out on some interesting people.

Now we come to the present. The kicker is, I want, no, I need to live off campus my senior year at Westmont. I'd like to stick around Santa Barbara in the summer too. Do I need to get my license to do this? The conflicting thing is, I've spent so long convincing people that I am a woman who does not need or want a license that it's like I'd be betraying myself to get one now. I'd be giving in. I've made it this far, how far can I go? Is it possible to live an independent life in America without a car? Am I revolutionary or just stubborn and afraid? Is one year of some inconvenience and shuttle-shame worth it? Worth what? What am I holding on to? What am I resisting? That is the question.

A Pledge

I, Jessica Drake, pledge to write one blog entry every day this week to compensate for my recent inactivity and to clarify my own thoughts on several major topics I've been chewing on all summer. To give my (few, but cherished) readers something to expect and to discipline myself, here are my chosen topics for each day of the week:

Sunday: To drive, or not to drive: that is the question.

Monday: Can Buddha and Jesus be friends?

Tuesday: He made the heavens and the earth: Creator God and the Zodiac.

Wednesday: The Beauty of Decay

Thursday: "Quod me nutrit me destruit"--my love-hate relationship with theatre.

Friday: Monastic Life and Me

Saturday: Enlightenment or Elitism?

Scribbles from Barcelona

After mayterm and before returning to the good ole US of A, I spent four days of surreal transition in Barcelona with Mr. John Jefferson. We drank a lot of bad cappucinos and a lot of great wine; we spent hours and hours with Picasso, Dali, and Van Dongen; we weaved through gothic streets in a constant state of lost; we stewed over Hopkins and the Beatniks; we ended the trip in complete poverty and spent our last pence on kebab. We also carried around paper--me, a journal; John, three carefully folded pages. My little scribbles ended up scattered through my journal, on napkins buried in the bottom of my backpack, or on torn scraps that were tucked into pages of my book. I've attempted to collect them and piece them together to shape into something worth posting soon while the trip is still recent, but most of them require a significant amount of editing or expounding. However, there is one small haiku that I am satisfied with. It was the first thing I wrote, on the train that we assumed would take us from the airport to the city center of Barcelona (lots of assuming in countries where you don't speak the language).

Charred-purple skies spread,

lit by low glowing lamp-stars.

Air: humid cigars.

Atlantis by W. H. Auden

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the Ship of Fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys,
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,
Drive you to anchor a week
In some old harbour-city
Of Ionia, then speak
With her witty sholars, men
Who have proved there cannot be
Such a place as Atlantis:
Learn their logic, but notice
How its subtlety betrays
Their enormous simple grief;
Thus they shall teach you the ways
To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay
Carthage or Corinth, take part
In their endless gaiety;
And if in some bar a tart,
As she strokes your hair, should say
"This is Atlantis, dearie,"
Listen with attentiveness
To her life-story: unless
You become acquainted now
With each refuge that tries to
Counterfeit Atlantis, how
Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last
Near Atlantis, and begin
That terrible trek inland
Through squalid woods and frozen
Thundras where all are soon lost;
If, forsaken then, you stand,
Dismissal everywhere,
Stone and now, silence and air,
O remember the great dead
And honour the fate you are,
Travelling and tormented,
Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Atlantis shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Atlantis
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea.
Farewell, my dear, farewell: may
Hermes, master of the roads,
And the four dwarf Kabiri,
Protect and serve you always;
And may the Ancient of Days
Provide for all you must do
His invisible guidance,
Lifting up, dear, upon you
The light of His countenance.

Book Binge

We had a class at Trinity College this morning with Nick Johnson, an American who took off for Europe after college in the states to research German ensemble theatres in Berlin on a grant. From there, he got his PhD at Trinity, specializing in Samuel Beckett's prose work. Now he is teaching classes at Trinity and meanwhile is the artistic director of the up and coming Painted Filly Theatre (http://www.paintedfilly.com/). He also acts and directs. Yes, I was inspired and maybe fell a little bit in love. Nothing funny, it was just reassuring to hear someone describing my dreams as their reality.

Afterwards, I was feeling particularly hungry for some new art. As if the 20 plays I've seen in the last few weeks aren't enough, right? But art is paradoxical like that, the more you eat the hungrier you get. And each new flavor and texture is so delicious that you want to gorge yourself on it forever, until you are reminded that there are hundreds of others still to try.

So I stomped down the cobblestone streets of Dublin without a destination or a map or any real idea of where I was, which is always the best way to find what you want. For an appetizer, I found a little market with tables full of silver jewelry (I resisted buying another ring only because I have run out of fingers) and hand-bound leather journals (which I resisted only because of the two small crumpled bills in my wallet). There was a great vintage shop with pink walls and teal floors and beaded hangers with tempting frocks and jackets. Somehow I pried myself out of that store without a purchase as well. My thriftiness broke down at the sight of bookshelves with sale signs. For only four euro I bought a used copy of The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis and the 50th issue of the Poetry Ireland Review from 1996.

At this point, I needed some real food if I was to continue aesthetically fasting, so I crashed at a table outside Metro Cafe. I expected good things based on the many smiling faces filling the tables (note: always pick restaurants based on the diners, rather than the menu) and was not disappointed. It was more like a community than a restaurant, almost everyone at the tables around me knew the staff and caught up about their hangovers and their families in between ordering. The guy who waited on me practically ordered for me, and jovially begged me to trust him that the penne pasta salad with pesto was the best thing I could possibly order that day in all of Dublin, besides a Guinness, of course. He was right. While eating, I people-watched and flipped through my new book of Irish poetry. One of my favorite finds so far is Peter McDonald. I'll share a little exerpt from his poem "Day-trip to Iceland" that I found particularly striking after the conversation this morning about the difference between America and Europe's cultural scenes.

Although we started in Belfast,

my people in the recent past

took their part in the general flight

to a fresh suburban satellite

where homes increase a hundredfold,

and few are more than ten years old,

where culture is a shopping mall

and there's no history at all

To sum up the rest of the day, I hit two more bookstores: Books Upstairs and Dubray Books. Dubray was first, a little more commercial but with a great poetry and drama selection. I bought Marina Carr's play "Woman and Scarecrow" because we had talked about her in class and if the Irish love her, I will probably love her too. Also, a collection of poetry by Leonard Cohen, "Book of Longing" because my Dad sent me his Live in London cd's and I've been crazy for his lyrics for the last two weeks. His writings, like his drawings that accompany his words on many of the pages, are rough and sensual with simple lines and smudged edges that touch something very human and very deep. When I read it, my chest tightens in that way when you try to hold back an excess of emotion in a public place.

Books Upstairs is dark and musty with lots of little neon orange sale stickers on covers. Basically, heaven. For cheap, cheap I bought "...She Also Wrote Plays: An International Guide to Women Playwrights from the 10th to the 21st Century" because, well, duh. And "The Beat Book: Writings from the Beat Generation" which is the best beat anthology I've found, with 18 authors. I leave you with one of my favorite excerpts from Kerouac's "On the Road":

"We seek to find new phrases; we try hard, we writhe and twist and blow; every now and then a clear harmonic cry gives new suggestions of a tune, a thought, that will someday be the only tune and thought in the world and which will raise men's souls to joy. We find it, we lose, we wrestle for it, we find it again, we laugh, we moan. Go moan for man. It's the pathos of people that gets us down, all the lovers in this dream."

Ireland Soundtrack

Dublin

Softs are hard here.

Weightless clouds shake the bowels of metal birds

and the unfortunate occupants--

a new generation of Jonahs,

who have thrown themselves willingly into

the belly of a beast

to be carried to a new shore.

What gods have we ignored?

My body anticipated its return here,

and raises my temperature as a purging fire.

Heightened awareness, my super-self burns,

iron eyelids crash to meet and then are hoisted apart again,

each vertebrae hammers nails into its neighbor's fence,

lungs suck oxygen out of fog,

each breathe thick like the history of this place,

grey like the streets and the buildings and the sky.

To compensate, true Irishmen learn to count the shades of green,

more than forty, they say (with their beautiful r's).

Each shade is a seed,

it gets planted in the spirit

until blood flows green and veins are vines.

I must learn to count the greens.

Camden Town

Today I met you in the day, in life--

not lit by stage lights and scripted,

or through grimy windows on the double deck of a bus

on my way to a park on a hill at night with stranger-friends

[spontaneity and wine overcame nightmare nerves for a view and a memory that was worth it]

I dressed for the occasion in my stompin' red Dr. Martens,

not aware that you originated them.

I ate American food on your street:

milkshake in glass and tin, fries (not chips),

didn't think you'd mind,

something tells me you understand nostalgia.

Thanks to you, I don't have to brave needles or offend my elders

to carry my symbol, my roots with me.

You really took it out of me though.

Never thought I could tire of this hippie Disneyland:

silks and scarves,

rings for fingers and bells for toes,

buddahs and bongs,

superheroes and punks,

mullets and mohawks,

florals next to spikes,

incense, leather, tea, and kung pow chicken.

KUNG POW---that's how you hit me.

A solid aesthetic knock to my senses.

I need a nap, a latte, an inheritance.

I miss you already.

Peace in Stratford

In Stratford,

where the city is two streets that I have known before,

and the bed is a cloud of feathers and white,

there is permission to rest.

It is good to release,

as if collapsing into an embrace,

to offer tension and weight

as both proof of need and thanks for arms.

And so I practice laying like a child

or a cat.

From the window, a breeze strokes my skin

purr purr purr.

Dumbwaiter spirit

In the rush, dishes pile up.

A smiling woman who may be missing a tooth furrows her brow in the eagerness to please as I am jammed full of dirty porcelain and slobbery table scraps.

The world is hungry

and my poor mechanisms cannot keep up with its gluttony.

I am as full and as heavy as the room where intelligence could not mask anger--

heaping plates of history and names my palate has not adjusted to

taste like salt and slime and rust--

I cannot swallow it all.

Pakistan Afghanistan India America Britain

Blame Blame Blame

Hate Hate Hate

Money.

A small voice goes unanswered:

"WHat can we do? Is there hope?"

The silent response is the heaviest dish of all.

It is getting hotter in here,

someone has turned on the sun.

I peel off hazy flakes of skin,

the guilt for taking a dirty dish and polishing it with pretty words.

Dramatic Pose: "I haven't suffered enough!"

Even success weighs on me.

And so I wait.

"What for?" Gogo asks.

But I am dumb.

I have no name to speak and console his anxious, hungry, tired self.

I wait

for an invisible hand to pull my straining ropes,

and lower me to a depth I have not been before

that I may be relieved

and the dishes cleaned

So both are fit to serve again.

Wisdom from Chekhov

"Always remember that the writers whom we call eternal, or even just the good ones who intoxicate us, they all have one highly important trait in common: they are moving toward something, and they beckon you to follow, and you feel--not only with you mind, but with your entire being--that they have some purpose, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who did not come to disturb the imagination without reason...The best of them are real and write of life just as it is, but because each line is filled with the awareness of this purpose, you feel more than life as it is--you also feel life as it should be, and this captivates you."