Time (Zone) Travelin' (Caits in San Francisco)

+ Brooklyn Is Sighing

2008-10-25T15:36:00.002-07:00

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I'm officially back here now:

http://king-poetic.livejournal.com

See ya there.

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+ Reflection

2008-10-14T22:37:00.001-07:00

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It is midnight here and the moon is full. Last night Bekah and I walked the corner after Sin Sin and she howled at the moon at 2:30am and a whole group of people started howling down the street with her. She is magic like that. Tonight I am sitting in the middle of my own magic. A canceled hang out and not enough energy to scrape together alternate plans left me in the house for much of the day, productive in a logo creation, a cover for Yusef's album that he was totally with and a new presskit, but a bit disconnected and feeling the weight of NY's missed connections lifestyle. I called Dusty Rose and Baraka who told me look at the full bright moon as they did, amazed and comforted by seeing the same ball of light suspended in the sky, even when across the world. Their love makes me feel whole. They trust everything. I trust them. I've been wanting to tell this beautiful story of our trust for some time and haven't been able to approach it. I think now is the time. The voice of this piece is all over the place, but the telling is what's important.

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It's a bright thursday morning when Baraka climbs into the couch with me, kissing my eyelids, "Mama, it is time to wake up." I've hit the snooze button four times on the make shift cell phone alarm and shift, groaning, "already?" Didn't we just go to bed? It's only 9am. That makes three hours of rest since he departed from our late-night confessions to close his eyes and dream. The sun through the blinds whispers hello all over his face and I pinch him to be sure he is real. His dread locks are spiking out in all directions, the soft loose hair near the scalp my favorite to touch, the tips brushing against his bare shoulders as he lifts me to standing. Dusty Rose is preparing for the trip in the kitchen, hovered over the computer, gathering directions as I shuffle into the shower and the three of us clean up to lumber sleep-heavy into the car, waking our way three hours north of Oakland to the promise-land of Chico, California. They call me Mama, but she is the mother hen, whipping us into shape like kids on too much kool-aid. Together we are a sight, all draped limbs and love leaking out of our bed-hair and rose-shaped lips. It is no lie, people everywhere fall in love with us, how could they not?

On the way, we stop in Walnut Creek where Dusty Rose gets a fabulous hair cut. Baraka and I hold hands, waiting, wandering for food in the slick department maze this small town calls an outdoor mall. The Dust's new cut mirrors her spirit in it's androgynous pixie splendor and I balk at the driver's license she reveals, her past life as a married woman with long blond hair and not a stitch of the Dusty I hug each morning, noon and night present in it's strange depiction. Sharing the three sandwiches gathered, we drive, the wheel passing though each of our hands, the other's fingers in the driver's hair and hip hop booming on the stereo. We roll the windows up for the guilty pleasure of Eminem and Dusty grins big, her awkward-beautiful head nod punctuating the beat. The lyrics take hold of my heart in a way they never did hearing the commercial for 8 Mile freshman year of college, I apply them to the car ride and elevate, "you better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you want it, you better never let it go."

And it goes like this, Aesop Rock to Outkast, calls to Grandma, and rest stop food, The Roots and Blackstar, '93 Till Infinity, have you really never heard the version of Hell Yeah with Jay Z? We arrive in Chico while the sun is still blazing in the sky, meditation, meditation, meditation, we find a park on the college campus and draw out the camera, laughing poems to passers by in front of a back drop of stone sculptures. Lay in the grass and more poems to the air, ones we know and have known, new ones and notebooks pulled out, the tape recorder rolling, the giant headphones passing ears. The photographs capture but a small taste of our magic, the joy proven in the dance and funny faces and eat-your-face grins, we are in love with each other, with the words and the whole world knows it. The college kid we grab as audience to the words, Baraka and Dusty Rose reading into his steady gaze like a challenge, the woman serving us coffee as we bounce around the joint, words spilling off our salty tongues, the kisses that pass from Baraka to I to Baraka to Dusty and the stupefied smiles that pass in our wake.

There is a street market in Chico and we wander through, travelers with wonder in pocket, arriving in a tornado to the Peace and Justice Center. Tazuo, the host, is quiet and reserved, perhaps taken aback by our boisterous entrance, perhaps laughing. He presents the flyer for my feature. It has my face big and my words scrawled across a gorgeous illustration of fireflies and fairies in a mason jar, personifying the poem into life. I am moved by the care taken and in my excitement, knock into a shelf, scraping my shoulder. "Whoa, are you ok?" he asks, rubbing his fingers gently across the large blue-purple mark brandishing the skin. "Oh, no! I took a lover," I laugh, shaking the unscathed shoulder where the love-mark lives and Baraka and Dusty giggle along. The slam is filling with folks slowly and we sit to prepare. My body begins to shake a little, a combination of exhaustion and excitement, the long journey to the small venue, the worry for my love in Los Angeles, who's phone call I cannot take but want desperately, to answer and be a good friend. The slam begins. Among the poets are my loves, who bring ferocity under their tongues and shake the room. I am proud that they are my friends. Taz jokes when I interrupt the reading to run behind a poet to use the bathroom and I almost cry, sensitivity sitting on my skin in an inexplicable, raw way. Baraka holds my hand. An eleven year old reads a wise poem, looking me straight in the eye.

It is a good slam but my belly tells me something else is happening. And it is. An older man steps the patch of carpet deemed stage and closes his eyes. Recites lines about abuse that make my insides crawl. "Oh big brother, touch me down there" as his hands snake over his belly and pelvis, rocking back and forth on his tip toes. Like a rocket, his hand violently slaps down the mic stand, breaking it. He picks up the chair in front of me and slams it backwards into the copy machine. It wheezes and blooms, trays of paper falling open. The room is a taut string of tension and I am paralyzed wide-eyed as Baraka slowly circles me, his fingers still in mine and blocks Dusty and I, our three bodies taking the space behind the targeted row of empty chairs. The man, eyes closed and raging, leans into the chair in front of Dusty, almost falling into her body. She places one cool boot on it's leg and shoves back, full of calm and "Don't fuck with me," all at once. We are a bubble around each other. The man closes in a soft flurry of stuttering, hesitant hand claps and I run to the fresh air outdoors, disturbed by the scene. Baraka follows, cradling me in his warmth. I am going on next for my twenty minute set, "my love," he breathes into my ear, "you do what you want to do, you only have to be honest." Dusty Rose joins us and I am center circle, being held in all directions, her heart beat sinking it's song into my back.

We rejoin the room as Taz is reciting a poem on the broken stage, addressing the scene. It is clear in it's metaphor and it is beautiful. He refers to me through the reference of Brooklyn, speaking of safety and responsibility. His words are so pure and perfect that I am shocked it is being written as it's being put to air. There are lines he pulls from the sky mirror my own lines bizarrely, but he couldn't have known that. I take it as a magical sign and do what Baraka said, stepping in front of the room with no mic to use, all the witty banter and normal stage presence sucked from under me. I begin with the prayer. The audience hums. Baraka calls my Los Angeles love on the phone and the room says hello, my poem for her arrives next, sent via speaker phone function across California's air waves. It is the only thing I have to offer in the moment. The rest of the reading is lost beyond memory. I only recall pacing back and forth like a madman, apologizing for my lack of story-telling and barrel though each poem with an intensity I had never before possessed. Exiting the stage, I snap back to reality. Taz has let Baraka and Dusty Rose perform three of their group pieces. They cap the night off on a high, infesting the place with their contagious spirit.

In the spirit of such a night, I pass out free copies of my books and CD's. Ask for feedback or a poem in exchange, knowing full well such strangers don't usually follow up. I am reminded how few there are like us, who take the time to connect and reconnect, fulfilling our promises to pass on a note of thanks, but I don't mind. Tonight was a different kind of night and their presence through the chaos was enough to make a heart recognize a different kind of thanks. Taz looks me dead in the eyes, "you are magic." He gives us the gift of three brilliant haikus and I leave with a DVD of the haiku slam he curates in my greedy palms. Matthew, who's words we drooled over, escorts us to the car. We have a long trip ahead, but are deeply thankful for the words shared. It has been a day, we decide, over breakfast food at a roadside Denny's. Each of us takes turns confessing how important we are to one another, the level of trust that has risen and rushed us like the bravest waters, our innate reactions to danger, the way we hold each other, in spirit and in touch. Each of us takes our turn to speak the magic in even scary scenarios, the thankfulness that arises when you chose to acknowledge what beauty lifts from the rubble. I drove back the entire way home, three hours of Baraka's lips on fingers, Dusty Rose sleeping across the back seat like an angel, the car humming down the high way. My family.

And this is just one story. Thanks, all my loves, from Chico to Oakland to Brooklyn. You make my life worth living.

PS. Some people do give thanks. The email I received from Matthew the next morning proved kindred spirits exist in this expansive universe:

Caitlin!

Chico was so glad to have you at our slam last night! Charming or not (and you were still pretty fucking charming in your transparency), you ripped that shit like urgency. And while I can't speak for the entirety of our small but lovely audience, from one poet to another, your words hit me near my center. I fucking welled during one of your poems. Yeah, that’s right: WELLED. As in, I was on the verge of tears. I think a lot of that had to do with the unique vibe in the room. Despite the slam's odd moment of busted vulnerability before your feature, the energy of last night was wonderfully cathartic and extremely uplifting in its honesty...

I guess we can't hide our scars (or our SMILES!!!), and we would absolutely love to have you back whenever you’re in California again! Anyway, these few early-afternoon lines of poetry are a personal thank you for blessing Chico with your spoken words, as well as kindly gifting me with free copies of your book and CD (I'm absolutely in love with "High-5," by the way)...

FOR CAITLIN

I want to locate the smallest way you managed to move me with your poetry,
Cradle it,
And say, "This...there is no way I can describe this..."

But someone out there will attempt to close shut that beautiful distance.
The mean people who name everything might just try
To whittle you down to less than the skip in your step
And the big hugs in your heartbeat,
While you’re busy auctioning off soul shrapnel
As a substitution for a full night of sleep.

But if you should smile in any given moment today,
I’m confident that the walls will readily admit their cracks.
They would apologize for trying to contain you,
Just listen!
The syllables are already forming on their lips,
They say, "This...there are no words for this..."

Except, maybe,
"Thank you."

:)

+ Seven Sins in the Shape of a Silkworm

2008-10-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

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Seven Sins in the Shape of a Silkworm

I say your name
and my heart blossoms:
Baraka

I've known you for 4,000 years
a day, seventeen minutes and
five seconds
before this human flesh
we were hot ash
a secret lovers two favorite songs
in succession on dusty vinyl
a first kiss under moon's careful watch
an avalanche
stones skimmed in game across
a creek's surface
we were tombstones and burial
a jewel in the crown of Nefertiti
believing in nameless gods
and the spirit of jesus in a horseshoe
we were myth
passed around fire cloaked
in the smoke of a peace pipe
do you remember how we held
each other back then?

in cold empty evening
it's the simple nest of your arms
cross hatched across bare belly
pink crooked tongue
misplaced cheek
stain under nail
what the brain choses to hold to
what the body aches for
early mornings smell of pending sun
and small things crawling
under earth's skin
all living creatures desire
the bee spreads pollen
crickets sinewy strings
ants marching diligent as we play
Sunday morning on repeat
reduced to wet openings and limbs
notice my mouth, a beating shrine
keeper of ghosts
and other hauntings
sing my name into eardrum
let it unfurl slowly like a sad hymn
I am looking for your next incarnation
make it a surprise

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+ Bragging Rights

2008-10-01T15:58:00.000-07:00

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The fools have been holding out on me. I found you out! Videos. Check out the people I'm in love with. They are really kinda rilly amazing. The thing is... now? These clips are old. Imagine them 1,000 times more fierce like badgers.

In this order: Baraka, Dusty Rose & Dre

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Baraka; Revelation from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Baraka; Idols & Idle Heroes from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Dusty Rose; Consecration from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Dusty Rose; Sailboat Moon (Jentle's Poem) from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Dre; Power from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Dre; Big Mistake from Jen Toal on Vimeo.

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Glugglug says the heart thing.

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A Song of Sorts for Dusty Rose

2008-10-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

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A Song of Sorts For Dusty Rose

slip a smooth stone in my pocket
blood worm incantation
mama, even the night can't take us

I know who you are
moon breath
begging womb
16th street
buckling knees

let's talk until the sun chases us down
our ribs bruised from
little sleep and no food
the highway craves
fresh bladder on its weeds
dirty rock n' roll 'till morning
tell me what you grieve

I have an apple we can bury in the redwoods
paper for our filthy mouths
sillygirl, there are no rules
my shoes got lost in ocean
let's write a novel
and I will wash your feet

look, it is 6am and we're still laughing
what do you want
what have you always wanted
I will slip into moonlight
lets invent a way to say love
that doesn't use words

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+ When I Reminisce Over You My God

2008-09-30T22:26:00.000-07:00

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Please excuse the drink induced silliness. Pants, Baraka, Mama and Aisha talking some ish. We are basically five year olds in love. Its true.

+ Give Thanks

2008-09-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

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Tonight I roped D & B into a skype dialogue. Most of it was us smiling happily into the screen and just saying, "ohhhhh." I miss them with a pain to the heart, but the good kind. My emotions are sitting so close to the surface. Never have I missed people so physically. Everything in me aches to be held on their couch while laughing to 30Rock ("my mindgrapes!") I had to take photos because I love photos these days. The poet I stopped by too. That's her with the badass fro.

Much to do but I'm still on Cali sleep time and wide awake at 3:30am. All of my responsibilities begin tomorrow, for those of you waiting. Give me the next few hours of sleep and I'm back to my normal follow through self.

So here we are. I'm home. I've missed the recounting of so many incredible experiences and am left to back track. The stories will come spotty and out of order, but so be it. I want to exist in them a bit longer anyway. I'm planning a chapbook of travel stories and poems so watch out! Reworked and revamped and mostly just for mumbles and the Dust, but you too, if you want to drop a couple bucks.

Anyway. I'm listening to Raashan's CD, which has been my soundtrack on BART and therefore will always have a special place in my heart as it's my Bay area hip hop symphony. He has a song that describes my experience so lovely that I have to share the hook. Thanks, Rashaan:

"Give thanks
when the sky turn red
and the day turns dusk
and what's said is said
I give thanks
for the pain and hardship
keep me focused and ready on target
give thanks
when the walls close in
I get love from my fam and friends
and then give thanks
put my hand over my heart
and let you know its from the very best part."

Now go cop the disc. It's really, really good.

http://www.myspace.com/raashanahmad

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So here is one story of many.

Saturday morning we woke sticky smelly glorious after a night spent spilling stories, laughs, love, kissing noises in the air like tiny crickets hand claps, their squeaks and smacks putting a little lightening into the dark. Love was everywhere, in the bottom of the bottles, ember on the end of a smoke, Aisha Heaven Pants Gigatino Kristina and of course, mumbles, the Dust and I. The later waking sleepy after staying awake with Baraka until six am, falling in love all over again, reminding him to go hold the beautiful Ms. Rose before she woke for work in just a half hour's time. The big us of the night before whittled down to just Pants, Baraka and I, watching silly television on DVD and keeping company as we relegated Pants to chef duty, partaking in a delicious breakfast. A slow rolling start to the day but by 3:30pm, out the door, Q-Tip and Phife Dog and Ali Shaheed leaking out the car window in dead bridge traffic, Baraka giving me that half-open smile in-love face as I got really into rapping along. We scooped up Tinkerbell and her kitten, who she holds close to her chest in a sweater and made way to Keroac Alley in North Beach.

Ok... go! Charmin' Charlie's idea, to meet in the legendary alley and read poems until the day turned night. The first round arrived awkward and forced until Dusty Rose showed up from work, which revives us. The poems came one after the next for four hours, each of us jumping in the air to rant our pieces, pulling out notebooks on the cool cobblestone, making moon eyes at the poems we've grown to know like a family member's bad habits. D & B read Pixie Dust, I followed with Dialogue with the Self and the Sky and Charlie spits a piece that fits perfectly in succession and there are a few of these brilliant threads of poems, on the spot curating into the air so the words and message create a river of sound and meaning. I grab D & B's hands and challenge them to a race, breaking into speed like a band of crazy horses, the others turning their heads plastered with huge "huh?" grins. They beat me badly despite my longer legs and run straight into a poem, breathless and amped up on adrenaline.

The crowd around us gathered and dispersed like the tide, coming in and leaving, hovering and stepping back into their normal day. The beret wearing old man who gave unsolicited commentary but also put us on to a Jack Keroac CD and tried to get us a gig at the neighboring restaurant. "Naw man, thanks, definitely for another time but tonight we're doing this for each other." The eldery couple walking by talking to themselves in quiet conversation until hearing "Deb gets fucked first," and stopping in their tracks, awe-struck and lingering for a good five poems. The man that video recorded us sneakily for what felt like hours, us all hugging and falling all over each other in true love.

This is how life should always be. (More of the story to come... check back!)

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+ Cause All We Got Is Rhythm and Time...

2008-09-28T23:36:00.000-07:00

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We floating on the edge of the sky!

So many stories. Wondering when I'll get a chance to transcribe them. Most recently, my purse got jacked from Dusty Rose's car last night while we were dancing in the streets. Back window smashed and our bags lifted from the trunk. There goes my Ghana notebook. All is well, otherwise and the days have been full of things to share. For now, some photos. Stay tuned...

What is happening in the epic photo brigade:

+ Poetry in the park (Chico, CA) with Failures of Capitalism aka Dusty Rose, Baraka & Caits
+ Breakfast Club reincarnate with Aisha, Heaven, Aaron, Caits & Baraka
+ Goodmorning world with Pants, Caits & Baraka
+ Poetry in Keroac Alley with Charmin' Charlie, Baraka, Pants, Tink, Caits & Dusty Rose
+ Random friend we inducted into our cult: Emil aka Dragon

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+ Sending Out Blessings

2008-09-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

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So much so much so much so much

so tired so tired so tired so tired

whoever is up there, please don't let me forget anything about last night.

A post is coming. For now: nap, if I can make it happen.

Also, love to everyone who is hurting. There are so many people in my life hurting right now and I am thinking about all of your hearts from afar... I have copious amounts of positive energy and I'm sending it out in droves.

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+ What We Live For

2008-09-25T00:26:00.000-07:00

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9/23/08 9:23pm Journal Entry

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Text message exchange #45,603

From: Baraka
To: Mama

Remind me what we live for

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From: Mama
To: Baraka

poetry love roadtrips adventure rhythm song dance love light sweat sun warmth divine moments transcendance

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From: Baraka
To: Mama

you got me

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It's been a whirlwind, but what is new? I'm sitting in a theater in the Mission. Anthem is brilliantly directing a play that opens tomorrow night and we are watching the runs. He stops the actors mid-sentence, prompting them to see and feel, to breathe real life into the work. He is tough but gently delivers the critiques. I'm impressed. And learning. The play is about Philippino-Americans returning to their homeland and what transpires from each individual experience. I am happy to catch the sneak preview, just us in the cavernous space.

Sitting here, it's overwhelming to try and make sense of the familiar juncture I'm lingering at. Magic here, home there. I realize they need not be mutually exclusive but it's enough to make one's logical mind into a funny animal with big bad sharp teeth. Yesterday I boarded the bus to Oakland at 9:30am to drop my bag at B&D's and see where the day shifted me to. A text arrives at 9:45 from V. I remember his promise to show me his paintings, but I am consistently surprised by the non-flakiness of people here and agree to a noon showing. (New Yorkers, you could reallly learn a thing or two from Cali. I'm including myself in this lecture.) I spend the morning hours sharing Sophie-moments in the kitchen with Baraka before boarding BART to Richmond where V, full name Vovito, meaning "little Grandpa" in his native tongue but don't tell him I told you as he usually pretends he doesn't know what it means when asked, is waiting in his red pick up truck. The vehicle has a dent on top where a sign post fell on the roof, where, as he says "Jah blessed" by saving his skull. He reminds me of an amalgamation of characters from my past, and though Mozambique is not close to Ghana on the map, he says the "ohhh yah!" that was signature of David.

His spirit is large and his home full of instruments, as he shares the space with the bassist of the "best reggae band in the Bay area." (Is there much competition? Who knows!) We crack open a beer in the back yard and share our passions. I read him some poems and get brave, playing a song on the guitar. "Bloodclot," he says, "who ARE you?" Tells me where to visit in Brazil, Jamaica, Portugal, where to find the authentic experience, as if these places were already on the travel map. I am not surprised to hear his favorite painter is Basquiat. His work is original but reminiscent of SAMO, gorgeous abstractions on canvas and I am genuinely impressed. He plays me a bit of djembe, choosing one of six drums, and, of course, laughs. After sometime sharing, we leave to grab a meal to complete the vibe with full bellies, stopping off at Kapur's house in Berkley.

And Kapur's house in Berkley... wooooo the view of San Francisco is unreal and V jokes that Kapur needs to get a woman to share a glass of wine with window side. "Please find me one!" Kapur begs, his Nepal accent pushing the laughter off his tongue. It seems we have arrived at the right time. Kapur offers us a delicious home cooked meal, spicy enough to make the sinuses run wild and I run to the bathroom repeatedly to blow the lingering cold outta my face. Home-remedy #30 noted. V urges me to tell the story of my septum ring. Inspired, Kapur says, "I want to get plugs in my ears." We look at each other, shrug, ok, and presto, we're shoved into the red truck down the Berkley hills to Telegraph, which, it must be said, is where I'd hang all the time should I ever find myself a resident of the area. Twenty minutes later and Kapur is wincing, his red ears a adorning a much fatter hole than before. We crash a small ball game on the park court (it only took me three shots to score, Yeow! For me, that's amazing.) V drops me off at the BART station with blessings and I came home to my loves.

I am too tired to write about the rest but let me say this: LOTS of episodes of the hilarious 30Rock (this show is unbelievably funny) and epic "you have to hear this song!" iPOD hogging/swapping/sharing/rapping and cuddles and hugs and love and love.

PS Look at my rockstars!

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+ The Postman and Other Fairytales

2008-09-24T23:49:00.000-07:00

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9/22/08 12:16am Journal Entry

I am finally cracking open the lined notebook I bought in Ghana for 1 cedi, a patterned school composition notebook, the label now reading:

Name: Mama
Class/Form: Life Tour
Subject: Poetic Sex

It just seemed appropriate to honor it with insignias and jokes from this city. I just finished my post-hot tub chat with Tonya and the Meissner house is still. I wanted a few minutes alone with my notebook, even though the sun will call early tomorrow morn, it's been a few days and my spirit was thirsting for it. This weekend has been as special as each moment here has proven. I arrived Friday night after parting ways with Baraka on BART and a long bus ride on my account of being Cali-ride ignorant. I was in a cold thick haze but pashed through the evening long enough to hear my cousin's music, Ivy on guitar and vocals, singing despite her own congestion, beautiful wise-songed and the high school boys drooled, me with a proud heart filming with camcorder. Maya cool on the drums, bursting out these contained, impressive, I'm-way-chiller-than-you drum solos. They chose perfect covers, Goldfrapp, Beatles, Cat Stevens to accompany the haunting originals and closed the set with a song their Dad wrote for his rock band over ten years ago when they were just wee things sleeping during his gigs. They are a living manifestation of all my 15 and 17 year old rock band fantasies and how right it feels when they introduce me as their cousin. We come home and I read them select entries from my blog, Ivy wide eyed and begging for more, and how good it felt to be "cool" on the other end of the looking glass.

Saturday the girls traipsed off to a festival on Treasure Island, adorning the cutest careful coordinated pixie outfits and the day was spent quietly completing work. One of the most incredible parts about this trip has been connecting with Rick. Of course, it is silly to recount the conversations shared, besides, they are private but honest and touching and infuse my heart with that genuine connection kind of happiness. We close the afternoon with an exchange, I read him my latest poem and he shares a moving song written for a friend. Ouch, says my heart, in a good way. The sharp pain reminds me how much I will miss my new found family.

The evening finds Rick, Grace and I over delicious Indian food and a night of dancing to Zimbabwean highlife music at Askenaz Dance Community Center. The floor is an unlikely menagerie of characters and we exchange laughter, our eyes directing one another to random specimens of hilarity like hidden secrets. I share a dance with an old man who guides me with force into fast circles until I peel away with a bow to solo it out. If I lived in Berkley, I would be here all the time. Reggae, highlife, afrobeat and other world music, housed in this incredible space that is also an activist center I mean... um hi? I'm Caitlin, nice to meet you. The end of the night finds us spent at a table, hanging back for a moment before retiring. I catch the eye of a beautiful man in the corner, laughing and dancing like a misplaced rasta, all by his lonesome. He is wearing board shorts and a short sleeved plaid button up shirt and flip flops, looking way more Island than Berkley and lifts his drink to me across the room. An invitation, if any, I make my way over to his light. V is from Mozambique but has been here for eight years. He works construction but is a painter. He laughs incessantly and it is a joyous infection. We exchange numbers and a half promise to hang out that I don't really take seriously. Disappear into the night, relishing being the mysterious poet from Brooklyn who leaves question marks and stars in her wake. (Little does he know about my goofiness. It's hard to hide for long.)

And this morning. I woke to pancakes and eggs. The girls lumbering in, high off no sleep, dramatically sighing and recounting tales from their life-changing music festival experience. Grace arrives home with her five year old daughter Sophie, who has been with her Dad for the weekend. Brilliant and hilarious in that I-can't-help-but-dance-while-I'm-talking-to-you way that five year olds are, Sophie lights the room with her jokes and interpretative movements and small nuggets of innocence. After breakfast, Grace agrees to cut my hair after all and gives a $60 cut for zip on the back deck, Rick bringing his guitar out and free style writing songs with Sophie about all sorts of silly things in the world. Grace and I add a line or two here and there, my best being "who's nose is pierced" to rhyme with "she is fierce," is a song where I miraculously became a purple lion in disguise.

The night closed with watching "Il Postino," which Rick couldn't believe I'd never seen. Please, please see this sweet movie. It's about a simple postman who develops an unlikely friendship with Pablo Neruda in Italy. My good god, please just see it.

The sweet life.

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+ This Is What Love Looks Like

2008-09-24T22:53:00.000-07:00

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+ For Your Viewing Pleasure

2008-09-20T13:43:00.000-07:00

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Quick update! Some photos that probably should have been sprinkled throughout the text but I didn't have e-access from my computer for the past week. I'm hanging at Book Beat in Fairfax and using the 'net to, erm, work. No really, after this update I'm working! Damn, my epic email past... I've set a precedent for epic emailing and now that I don't have steady 'net access, I'm way behind in my correspondence! (Sheepish.) Whoops.

Oh, please don't make me leave the Bay.

Emmy's Spaghetti Shack: Punk Rock Eats!

The Corner/ 16th & Mission: Charlie is a ghost!

The Meissner Sisters are amazing!!!

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+ Midday E-Poems

2008-09-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

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Ohgod ohgod ohgod my 15 year old cousin is a freakin' genius. She is practicing a song for her show tonight on the living room floor and I am am floored, I am floored, I am floored! Wait until you hear about the Meissner Sisters- yeow!!

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Also, some midday E-poems from The Dust to me and back:

To Mama (Caitlin)
From Dusty Rose:

stood at work today, sleeping day nightmares
vague shadows for legs
thinking foolish thoughts

i miss mama
but she's not even gone yet
i left for work
its only 10am

missed you prematurely
can i talk to you from the stage
think you some love into the mic
what poem would your ears miss
what words shall i give the air
to whisper you through the weekend

i'm just a fool's fool
but i miss you like home

can i hold my roots in your hand?
only for a while...

--

To Dusty Rose
From Caitlin (Mama)

put it into the air, my Dusty Rose
your words will tangle in my hair
ache that tugs the heart
ring in the ears
I told you, mama, we've
always been and here we be

i carry you under my tongue
for sleepless nights
when day creeps under my ribcage
a lantern burn
a no, not yet
a sad song, too sad to sing
a desert mind
a promise ring

just three days, but i know,
i do, roses red and violets blue
i'm outta words
but i miss you too!

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+ Public Service Announcement

2008-09-18T19:22:00.002-07:00

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P.S. I know there are typos in the last entry. Blogspot is being an asshole and won't let me log in to correct them. It keeps giving me an old version of the text. Boo. When you see the bad grammer and mis-typed word, just know I know and you know so we're all on the same page m'kay?

'Night world, big heart vibes like a San Fran hippie blasting off in all directions tonight.

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+ I Wish I Could Give You This Feeling

2008-09-18T19:22:00.001-07:00

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Tonight, in the car on the way to Stacie's I said to D & B, "what is so amazing, is that we can just be. Small stories from the past, but our now is so rooted in the now in a way I've never experienced it before." Dusty Rose says, "I was gonna say, ask me a question! But then I started to agree with the 'now' bit." Baraka sings, "The present is a gift and I just wanna be..."

In order to avoid the trek to Daly City for a clothes change, Dusty Rose washes the two outfits I stuffed in my knapsack and loans me socks. I get to drive her car again (purrrr) over the San Fran highways to 16th and Mission. Let me tell you. Ok, how can I tell you? How about starting with this: Cameron, the top-hatted artist who creates their fliers said to me, "This is gonna be something they write about in history, maaaan, and we're gonna say, 'I was there!'"

True this. 16th and Mission, which I've described earlier, is a corner in The Mission District, right outside the BART station, where poets and homeless people and drunks and musicians alike gather to read/sing/spit circus-ring style on the street. Tonight we storm in with wings on our heels. I buy two bottles of water and fall straight into Charmin' Charlie's arms as he pulls me through the crowd, "this is the cover of our next book and you are submitting!" He then practically pushes me in the ring, though someone else swoops in to play an upright bass and a lady sings along, oldsouljazz style, and instead Charlie grabs my arm and we fake-swing dance to the music. He releases me into the center and I'm competing with the chatter but bolster up every bit of airspace left in my cough-heavy lungs and as John Survivor used to say, SPIT THAT SHIT POET!

"Poem for Mahogany," for Aaron. Harder than ever, due to the traffic and general conversation on the outskirts, and Bekah was right, it was pure and the audience of random artists and hooligans really gave their faces over for the show. A few young women approached me afterward and I was breathing hard and beamed big smiles of thanks back at them 1,000,000 times over. Dusty Rose grabs my backpack and I follow her through the crowd where we post up on the concrete, Pants joining us, leaning into my lap and we hug like old friends, kisses on the cheeks from all sides.

And yes, because it's a random happening, random things occur. The healer dude from Union Square is there, the one who I ran into at Power to the Peaceful (go read that blog), which makes me laugh big and remember seeing him on TV with Tina Gaudy busting a gut laughing. Characters yell in time with people's poems. A comedian takes center stage and everyone is rolling on the floor half in "what the...?", half in genuine humor. Following this, a woman gets up with a rant. She takes a long time to get it out, but clearly needs to be heard and has this funny sort of chortling laugh between each fragment of thought. We listen, sneaking glances of humor and "hmmm's?" At some point a guitar beings to play in time with her, then somehow miraculously we are all dancing, and it's joyous for a moment, everyone in the center stomping their feet and laughing and clapping until one drunken arm hits the woman, accidentally I think, it was unclear and happened so fast and all of a sudden a fight has broken out. "Don't touch me!" She yells and everyone backs off and isn't sure what to do when Pants steps in with a poem about love. The crowd quiets and the woman saunters off. I step back to watch the whole scene. One of the men who started 16th and Mission gets up, embarrassed at the crowd for disrespecting this woman. Baraka counters with, "I mean, there is also an energy and things happen here spontaneously, it's the corner, you know, but I hear you, man." Joe is aiming the lecture at hecklers. I am not sure who heckled who, but he leaves, respectfully and the vibe is significantly changed. Unsure about my place in the bigger picture, I look at Charlie, who shrugs, "yeah, things happen here, you know?"

The remaining group huddles close around a reader, their arms around each other while I hang back to talk to Cameron. The clock strikes twelve and I hug my friends, gathering compliments from a young man who tells me I'm glorious, all of which I drink in with pride and love and board the BART home to an empty house that feels like a nest. Talking to Chris on the way home who kept his eyes open just to see me safely to the door and a conversation with Tina filled with life lessons and exclamation points and I'm sitting in the middle of this, yes, glorious existence, and can't say it enough: thankful.

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+ No YOU'RE a Garlic-Faced, Vinegar-Breathed Snot Ball!

2008-09-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

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If there is one thing I can say about this week... I have gotten really schooled on alternative medicine. So far I've managed to:

+ Drink more water than I have in my life
+ Same goes for tea
+ Eaten way too much RAW garlic (it burns the tongue & the sinuses)
+ Neti pot extravaganza (that little genie bottle that pour salt water in one nostril & out the other)
+ Taken homeopathic tablets
+ Airborne 3 x / day
+ Emergen-C 3x / day
+ Zinc cough drops
+ 2 Kombuchas / day
+ Apple Cider Vinegar in water 3 x/day
+ Steam bath with apple cider vinegar

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I'm feeling a little better.

Ok, a lot better. But I am convinced it's due, mostly, to the love of the two beautiful folks you've been reading an awful lot about. I came out here all scratchy and fuzzy brained, attempted sleep while the crew headed to the local slam and found my mind spinning funny-style, with the signature insomnia new cities often bring. Of course, around 10:30pm a whole handful of random characters arrive to the house and I stay awake long enough to share some (stuffy nosed) poems and homemade french fries. Falling asleep to Pant's song about porcupines and the house settled amazingly quiet for so many random folks in it's belly.

I woke up around 11am to a buzzing scene in the kitchen. "Hamburger's for breakfast!" And someone says, "Mama, that's your plate!" which is an egg on a hamburger or something ridiculously delicious and presto, a cup of tea, too. Heaven and Pants and Aaron and Baraka and Dusty Rose and me eating together and a whole day of lounging around together, although come to think of it Baraka and The Dust both headed off to work and left us their home to make home in. Dre came by for a quick 10 minutes and then Pants and I went in search of a health food store and 'net cafe, singing Erykah Badu (he's now obsessed with "I Want You," duh!) as I drove stick shift up Market Street. I miss driving and I love Oakland. 'Nuff said.

Last night I was sick of spending so much time, um, sick, so I agreed to bring my laptop to the Berkley Slam, working straight through the slam (half listening to the poets), getting an amazing amount of freelance done and then closing the computer to listen to Jaylee, the feature, who I am pleased to tell you I really liked and I am a picky listener. Jamie DeWolf hosted and I think I'd have split stitches in my side, if I had stitches, anyway, because he is the most offensive, rauncy host in the entire world (but you knew that, right?) and the night's theme, of course, was "Drugs, Damage and Destruction." I'll leave it up to your imagination. The word that was to be worked into the poems was "cattleprod." Beautiful. A good night to come out, for sure. I even set up a whole station in the back, with a plastic bag for my tissues. Home can be anywhere. I am also happy to tell you I got two good back massages and that helped my cold a great deal, in spirit.

Oh wait! Please, please, please if you are ever in the Bay Area, go check out Syzygy! This dude blew my mind. He provided the soundtrack to the evening, entirely beat boxed and it... man, it's not even worth trying to explain, please just google him or something.

I have also gotten lazy on the picture taking. Sorry. More to come in the future when I venture out of the house, though I really wish I could show you and Pants and Aaron, truth be told. Last night Aaron told me I remind her of the song "Eryn Smith" by The Matches, a local Oakland band she used to listen to in high school. How amazingly right on is this?:

"She hacks her hair shorter on the left side
'cause if you called her cute she'd be horrified
she says, 'you're gonna eat popcorn in the dark
and pay ten bucks to watch my life some day!'..."

Today we recorded poems and I'm working on design for a presskit for B&D for their hospitality and I'm not sure I really want to go back to New York. I'm not really trying to think about it right now. I love my people. I loooove my people!

This was a conversation entirely in text message between Baraka & I. Transcribed, it makes like a poem, doesn't it? (If you can guess who is who correctly, you get a gift from me. Comment away!)

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would you like to play at questions?

what purples have you dreamed?
how shall we mend you?

bruises on the heart...
my dreams were unfriendly this morn
heal with love
yours: what did you want to be when you
grew up at age 5?

love in many fabrics and flavors
an inventor or a novelist or a movie star...
but really, Spiderman
what song lies under your tongue?

Carol King, Far Away because of how it aches
where in the world do you desperately want to visit?

trinidad cape verde amsterdam to egypt
bali hawaii brazil australia
portal and your daly city apartment
what gets you every time?

That's easy: a good poem
Come to Daly City and read me one
I have to flip it back on you, too good!

oh i left out
your daly city apartment at 4:30am
ahem. and a girl with soft features...
gets me every time

Why 4:30 am?

the best time: just
before the worst hours...
the ethereal corpuscular
how do you worship?

I believe you asked me this in a poem
with words, meditation, journal
sharing, swimming in the ocean,
Alice Coltrane, sex. Give me one
of your dreams.

didn't hear an answer:
joyful solitude...
I walk through suburban houses
followed by an overcoat.
what's your drink of choice?

i dream of wax

Red wine, aphrodisiac of goddesses
what is your favorite thing to
feel between your fingers?

I want to know about your love

soft fabric. dripping clit, cracking vinyl,
sweet areola, dripping cinnabon,
thick chocolate. So many kinds of love:
hip hop, friendlove, dreams, wishes
lust sub

should I hold back?

no holding back allowed

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On that note: we're off to Stacie's to write and then to 16th & Mission for the poetry circle and then I am coming home alone while they do a late night dance party thang that my sinuses already warned me they are not on board for. Tomorrow, off to Fairfax for more of my fabulous family and all is well, thankyouverymuch.

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+ Send Me Good Health Vibes

2008-09-16T16:09:00.000-07:00

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It's official. I am realllllly sick.

Grooooaaaan.

The good news is, it's 7:30pm and I'm posted up on Baraka and Dusty Rose's couch in Oakland. Change of plans, since I'd have to be sharing a bed with Beth and didn't want to impart my sickness onto anyone undeserving. I'm one lucky duck, despite the clogged head. My angels picked me up from the BART station, pulled out the futon and left me with a cup of tea, a towel, lots of love and The Dust's computer (which I'm using now to type this.) It feels good to be in their home. Best part? While I'm working/healing from home, I get to hang with them. The last few days of nothingness have been slightly lonely so my soul is happy to get better in good company.

(Looks to the sky) Just... thank you.

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+ Release

2008-09-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

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I want to tell you my stories but this illness that has been hovering for days now finally hit with a definitive swing. The cold arrived. Rick and Grace pumped me full of homeopaths and Chinese herbs, Shoshanna filled my cup with Cold Buster juice straight from her juicer and a cup of tea is on the stove. Hopefully, this is just passing. The timing could not be worse, however. Yesterday I got my septum pierced. The snot is stuck in my sinuses for now, but should it decide to drain? Oh, yuck.

Click the photos to see the ring big! Its not the one I wanted, but I had to get the retainer ring for now. Imagine an even cuter little almost-hoop that is more curvy and less like walrus tusks. Also, the beauty of the piercing? I can flip it up into my nose and you would never know I had it! Totally hide-able, sneaky badass style.

I want to give big ups to my Mom for not freaking out when I told her (on her birthday) over the phone. Wooo, cool Mom!

So the story is this: Since I was a kid I've been envious of beautiful women with teeny tiny septum rings. Don't ask why, but I've always loved them. I used to stick little jewelry hoops up my nose to see what it would look like. For some reason this fantasy has been heavy on the brain lately. Apparently, I'd even mentioned it to Grace last week. So, Rick and Grace scoop me up yesterday and we stroll in The Haight for awhile. Grace, who (because she is rad) has stories for days. She tells us of another lifetime ago, when she custom ordered handmade body jewelry she designed while living in Indonesia. Big plugs and beautiful jewelry for nipple rings, all tribal-influenced and made of animal bone and other natural matter. Truly amazing stuff. Recently she has been thinking of trying to liquidate the left overs, years later, and we stopped into Cold Steel, a friendly little shop on Haight. It was over. I wanted the ring... now.

So, a few minutes later, there I was, getting prepped by a guy with face tattoos in a doctor's office-cum-tattoo parlor. I'm so tired I couldn't care less about the upcoming pain and mostly am just excited for a new piece of semi-permanent jewelry to wear. After some time exchanging stories, the nervousness begins to settle. "Um. Does it hurt, man?" He answers, "Of course, but only for a moment. Ever been through heartbreak? This is so much less worse, trust me." Recently, I tell him. Still going through it a little. "Me too, sister," he answers, "consider this a release."

Good plan. I'm mulling this over in my head while he asks me to lie down on the bed. He warns me that since its hard to see where they are piercing, given its up the nose, if the piercing comes out crooked, he might have to redo it. I say a quick prayer in my head that the piercing comes out not crooked. "I'm feeling your septum. I'm making an indentation. Inhale deeply... exhale... (YEWWWWOOOWWW) you have a septum ring, how does it feel?"

With tears streaming down my face, I grin, "I feel fucking badass!" And proceed to do a little dance in the mirror.

To all those wondering, yes, of course it hurt, but it was instantaneous. Somehow, its barely even sore, despite copious nose blowings. Golden.

Also: thanks to Mar, check out my home away from home, The Mission in the New York Times:

http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/09/14/travel/14hours.html

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+ Insomnia

2008-09-13T15:10:00.000-07:00

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Sometimes my text messages are poetry. My recent favorites from the past few days:

From: Dusty Rose
Let us live in the pith.
Between the rise and the
foam let us live always
inside the crashing wave.
Let's climb fences, peek
under the concrete,
breathe dirt.

From: Raashan A.
I'm where the moon
meets the sky and
reception is choppy... talk tomorrow?

From: Rolando B.
It's all phone

(which he later told me is his way of saying "its all good!" Ha!)

From: Jme
What's wrong with us? How
is this our lives? How is
this where we live? It's
not enough. It's like an
encore channeling the
dead.

From: Baraka
how are you healing: star
sister?

& there were more I deleted because my inbox got too full. I should really start writing them down and steal them!

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Also, watch out what you say to me, I might post it in my blog if its amusing enough!

me: hell yeah! I mean, if you are not on tour forever

raashan: or if your not.

me: i'm not on tour, im just hanging out and doing some small little shows

4:27 AM poets don't have the same touring lives as rappers

only a select few

raashan: life tour. you travel homegirl.

me: life tour!

raashan: seems like youv'e been running.

me: that is my new anthem

raashan: get a t-shirt made!

me: adventuring is the term I like to use

for real!

good idea

4:28 AM I'll get one for you too on some super exclusive ish

raashan: yes!

it should have all your dates on the back.

4:29 AM and one of those model non model shots of you staring at me with those "passionate" eyes. haha

me: and all the dates will be, "wherever the wind takes me" or something cheesy and vague like that

hahahahahaha!!!!

raashan: life tour!

me: oh I'm soooo on it

4:30 AM raashan: wow. I use "wherever the wind takes me" all the time...im cheesy.

me:i use it too, but it takes on another level of cheese when its on the back of a shirt that says "life tour"

raashan: word.

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Last night I watched the sun come up over far-off conversation with a new friend on the road. Today my brain is slow moving. But no time for this blog thing, shower time! I really gotta get out of here! I'm late!

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+ Poets?

2008-09-13T00:13:00.000-07:00

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Tonight we sang a million tongues together. I've seen Africa in summer, I know magic and this is it. Two poems for me? It's my dinner. We write one together, The Dust, B & me in a Mexican restaurant in the Mission, exquisite corpse-style, we write one line, the other writes the next and folds the first into hiding. The next writes a line and folds the one before and we pass it like this like a thread through conversation. Unveiling it's final poem and reading it into trio song, how beautiful our coded language. Let's write poems back and forth forever.

In real-people speak, this is a poem we wrote together. It was accidental beauty, not knowing what came before. Even the word gutter appears twice.

The Dust & Baraka wrote more poems for me. Dusty Rose said, "I was jealous, I wanted to write a poem for you" all shy-like the five year old in her stomping feet stubbornly. I hold them in my belly like good food. Home cooked. Baraka looked me in the eyes under street light outside a cafe and said, "I was wondering if we only existed in coded language. Once we talked about hip hop, I knew. Should I pretend I haven't read your blog about me?" There is friendship here beyond the words, but they hold us together, lift us up, brandish wings on our back. It sounds silly but it's true. Still, I have new poems for them about to exit me in a moment. We've committed to a series, to trading, to the amazing inspiration that passes from our brains to lips to fingers. Expect lots of poems here. Come join us.

Before the poems though, I quickly want to tell you about Emily Butterfly, the puppitista educator and her lovely song-bird voice and the good food we shared and the random friends that rolled through. I also want to show you some pictures. Here they are:

Caits & Emily Butterfly, this photo is for Yarrow!

Mural for King Dream, who was shot by a store owner while painting graffiti

The mural artist introduces himself!

There is a comet in The Mission!

Emily Butterfly & The Skeleton

Yer one hot cookie!

Wishing you love & hot cookies

I'm serious!

See, The Dust loves hot cookies!

If you buy a pair of their drawers, you get a free cookie...

The catch is you gotta pose for their wall

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The group exquisite corpse we wrote tonight:

who paints the signs in Mexican restaurant
of purple pastry in Livemore sunscapes
thunder leaves that fall hard
ground then cradles their veins and other insects
crawl into my sunset I'm crawling too
spiraling through the earth
to find your center
middle is false, though, the sky tells us this
through vines, through acid rain and pesticide
filter daylight
hold it inside your elbows, behind your knees
are ticklish and soft like melon
hard boiled detective in the afternoon
sleepy, hungover and waiting like a barometer
waiting under the gutter
for the rain, dirty tongues and sooty minds
gutter love and muck I smell of concrete
of confusion, my skin of grim
of digging and old men's beards
creaking floor boards
fire rings and a hidden tear drop
under your Havanna hat, the one with the feather that this whole city wears
roll me one for Cuba, I would live Cubana if I knew the way
cotton dress whispering summer
whispering let's not wait

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To Brooklyn
by Baraka Noel

We must find this cave
the hyberbole of your embrace
an artifact

the cinema of
silhouette by lamplight

the moons quiet coin
aching to be stolen

a laugh of broken glass
have I invented you?

ladle me onto your belly
campfire cradled in our palms

an alter built of awkward phrasing
in remembrance of flesh

my crooked tongue, king poetic
too much flavor
I'd wager
you're too Brooklyn for Williamsburg
where were you as I

walked beneath the dripping JMZ
and wondered where to sleep

I didn't get the call to come to Ghana
I would've gone

I'm gone now
stiff as a bowstring

resisting the pulse of you
the ache of my slow

nice guys finish last because
we let women come first

the first time

how honest do you want me to be?
we could play it cool

so cool

I spilled an iced tea on my trousers
you trip on your way to the bathroom
and shatter the mirror of a medicine cabinet

plug me into your electrical fire
spill me like grease across your page

sometimes I forget that
I'm an optimist shouting
into a tin can

so now I gaze as if your tongue answered
the riddle of my laughter

if this is a crush
how much weight must we place on affection

let's hang like sneakers
from telephone wire

find a broken window
and squat like pigeons

pilgrimage from a Christopher street
pier to remixed emcee lyrics

Greenwich Village is not in Brooklyn
neither are we

this afternoon you punctured my lungs
with your staple gun tongue

hold me like your attention
I'll rant beautiful gruesome

till you forget to listen
passing post-its in Coke bottles
across the unknown

where is your smell?

how did we stumble
to this alley way?

your king poetic wrapped
in brown stone
coastline to rooftop

will you curse
in regret of my masculine?
arms lifted like the suspension bridge

will you forget

this is what I have to offer

the humble flame
a trembling echo how I knelt
in prayer one sunday morning
hard as a bench, grinding my desire into hymnals
as word becomes flesh

the transubstantiation of of wine into ritual
an apple from my hand
may it leave you unsatisfied
there is still time for wanting

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Mama
by Dusty Rose

May I give you this
a flame
bursting into being
over and over inside an improvised
windshield

frayed hem
strings touching the floor
to remember the place
we'll take it with us
conversations that sink
beneath our hovering cuffs
and bathroom sink
that's better
than the dumpster in an alley
hold me
in your wrists
reach for me with your fingers
the night highway
dotted lines
and street lamps
train tracks and gravel
let's break
some rules

mama
may I open you
untie your boot strings
with my finger tip
I wished
on your unlit cigarette
to fall in love
again
I think you could whisper
winter into my throat
until my shoe strings freeze
is it cold
where you harvest your vibrations
and do you hear the crystals humming
I wasn't glued when you left

mama
may I lay my head in your lap
like an afghan
knit my skin to hold warmth
so you'll save me for the snow
I want
to hitchhike on your earlobes
lend me your taste buds
we'll name the citrus in The Mission
hold dark amber in our throats
at Grant and Push
because buffeted by tourists
we'll hear Chinatown's drums
like a tent zipper at 7am
put ourselves back together
lace our legs in a three armed race
write itchy tags and turtle necks with me
hold me inside woodchips
and when they bite my arches
when I want
drifting aimlessly past your sunflower lips
remember
you pierce me like a star thistle
I carve grooves in my skin
so when I crack
when my chest buckles
above the weight of my lungs
you'll know
I am not this checkerboard kitchen
not the parallel silverware drawer
I am the eggs
shivering, sweating in the fridge
riveted in my own skin
laced to your footprints

mama
may I give you this
coax the morning
dove from my throat
let it perch on your fingertips

sing me awake
call through this city mist
like sunrise
dangle me from the tip of your spine
let me give you this
a flame

I met you on the wrong coast
give me a story
tell me home
let's pull the sun
back across the sky
like a kite
tether it to a shore
and
remember

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(Editor's note: Yeah, I know.)

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+ Some Straight But Yeah We Straight Up Funk-Ay!

2008-09-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

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[Spoken: The Last Poets]
The corner was our magic, our music, our politics
Fires raised as tribal dancers and
war cries that broke out on different corners

[Hook: Kanye West]
I wish I could give you this feeling
I wish I could give you this feeling
on the corners...

- Common, On the Corner

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12pm Journal Entry transcribed from notebook

Well, it was bound to happen. I forgot my keys at "home" and am stuck, dirty in day old clothes at a coffee shop in Berkley waiting for someone to call and signal my exit to cleanliness.

...

Moments later, I must've manifested something by writing that down because a minute later Shruti calls me and I'm waiting for the BART like a chariot. Here we are. Shall we talk about last night? After struggling with whether or not to sneak in a nap before leaving and ultimately forgoing it for a chat with Jme that lifted his spirits (I think, I hope), I headed to the Mission for my impromptu feature at Dalva. Beth walked into me on the way there (of course!) and when I arrived, Charlie opened the door to the back room, a small cave of candlelight and poets and non-poets who listen to poets (I am always amazed that these people are real and alive.) The stage is a small area with just a mic and the venue is intimate and cozy, with that special vibe I've come to know as romance. I feel far too at home here, with Charlie's bear hug welcome and Jonathon's sweet smile and Baraka surprise showing up, passing me a note, Its good that you are sitting behind me or else I'd be staring," and Dusty Rose rolling in on his heels. Christine tapping my shoulder and all of a sudden I am looking at family. After a week and a half, I'm already feeling so connected to beauty and understand the Bay Area-Brooklyn lineage that I'm steadily becoming a part of. Bi-coastal it might have to be, one way or another.

Baraka reads the poem for me on the open mic, tells the audience exactly who it was written about, and as he recites, now from memory, I cannot help but grin a slightly embarrassed but mostly honored smile all the while he asks the questions to my beaming face in the audience. I am a little shy, but mostly proud. He hands me a brownie that hits me later, not realizing, but should have, what was hidden in its sugar. I feature. The quiet crowd comes crazy alive after "Questions for Yusef" and I feel the sanctity of words again. Having Dusty and B there fills me with a confidence and light I haven't know before. Their magic and support sinks deep in my bones and lifts me up. That is a rare and special power of theirs. I mostly read from the book, not wanting to bore Jonathon, who has now seen me read four times, and of course, something new for D & B, who've heard just about every poem I have ever written by now. It's, luckily, the perfect venue to bring paper and still look into each captive moon face, quietly and attentively drinking in your words and Charlie getting all Charlie-like geeked out in the back, claiming he kicked out the hecklers because if "they talk during Caitlin's feature I'll beat their ass!"

As with all of my readings in the city of romance, I feel wonderful stepping out of the spotlight and have the pleasure of watching Shahid Buttar, half hip-hop, half poet with a positive message for the world and the kindest energy. The small money I pocketed was also a welcome surprise, as the concert tickets that come next were expensive and the cab ride home was a whopping $50 split with Beth in the city of early-trains and no car. Oh, I forgot to tell you about Charlie's poem, where he turned off the lights and got down on his knees, roaring out the most hilarious tribute to cheese I have ever heard. Not that I've heard any tributes to cheese before, but you know what I mean. I tried to take a photo but it was too dim. His outline in shadow is posted below.

After the reading we all walked a few blocks down to 16th and Mission, "The Corner," which all of my friends from New York and the Bay alike have been raving about, dramatically clutching the chest where the heart lives and exclaiming, "Caitlin, you will love it!" Indeed. A group of unlikely characters are gathered around in a circle, candles lit and B&D introduce me to everyone as "Mama," which I've stopped correcting, and they start it off by jumping center circle to read one of their group pieces. Charlie gears up like a sports player about to rush the field and runs in like a banshee, the excitement buzzing as he shouts a poem out, full bodied. I instantly feel at home here. The unfortunate fact is Beth and I have concert tickets for a 10pm show, so we part ways after multiple hugs and a promise to join the corner for a full night next week. On the way out Tink shows up with her kitty and we take some family photos.

Running on four hours of sleep, poems, a magic brownie and three pulls off the peace pipe, I am floating somewhere between sleep and desperately alive. I am so amped to see Digable Planets, my favorite hip hop group since I was eleven, thanks to Dad's record collection, that I dance through Kev Choice's live band set, not sure if I'd like the music given other circumstances, but feeling the thrill of being in my body, feet hooking into every hungry groove. The DJ follows with Nice and Smooth, Black Sheep, Pete Rock and that pleasure of being alone in a crowd of people who are all singing "When I reminisce over you, my god" together, like a big extended family.

So I don't know if you've heard of this MC Blu from L.A. or not, but the man steps on stage and I think, "oh, he could get it." I like the way he rhymes but more over, I am watching the way this man commands a stage. His confidence oozes and I've never seen a more casual presentation be so captivating. He saunters around, banters with the audience, takes off his jacket, but leaves it half on 'cause he can't be bothered taking the other arm out of the sleeve, wears a West Coast, "fuck it" attitude and yet, we're all there with him. I watch him, taking notes, and later, outside I put them to the test, flipping his swagger back on him. "Hey man, your live show is bananas. You don't even do anything, really, and people are bugging out! That's real." He looks a little hesitant at first, but smiles despite and we talk about the difference between New York and Cali and when I give him my card he pauses, "wait, what is THIS?" I'm a poet, I say, and that's a quote from your man Doodlebug. He extends a hug and raises an eyebrow, "I'm gonna have to check you out." I tell him we'll link when he's back in New York, I'll bring a crowd to your show. Really? He looks excited. "Naw, man, I'll try but people in New York are assholes!" I laugh as I pull my hand away, turning on my heels in a cloud of half-smiles for the cab. The formula works. Beth says, "wow, you're good at networking!" Or flirting, I shrug. Really, it always lives somewhere between the two.

So I'd love to be able to tell you I made it to the end of the show but I was so tired and I felt the bass like it was living in my chest, a wild kicking animal and my ears were fuzz and I was getting dizzy so we left before Digable Planets finished their set. I'd also like to tell you that they blew me away, but while this was not the case, it was quite special to see them in person. Butterfly could get it, too. Uh. But really, I was excited to rap along with the old joints, even though I wished we could all step into a portal in time and see them in 1994 at Brooklyn Moon or something, even though it would probably be more like '91 before they blew up and started playing much bigger venues. Also, I think with all those delicious jazz samples they flip, a live band would have done them justice, though DJ Jedi does hold it down. But so be it. After the set turned to new material, I was ready to be out. I'm sure they closed with "Cool Like Dat," which would have been fun in a big crowd on account of I'm sure that was the one song everybody knew all together, but I was way exhausted like 'dat so we hopped the cab and shared Beth's comfy bed. I have never slept better in my life.

My advice to you? Tooth brush and earplugs and anywhere is home.

There are still stories to transcribe and share. I can't wait to tell you those too!

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+ For Baraka

2008-09-11T16:48:00.000-07:00

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PS. Thought you might appreciate this resurfaced photo from 10 years ago. That was me at 14! Kid you not. Thanks for passing on, Meghan! Lookit how little my face is!

And now...

A poem in response to the gorgeous one that lives below. Read that one first. First draft, of course.

For Baraka

the days run into each other
like moving pictures
an arm becomes a pinwheel becomes
animal, swinging from vine
in a jungle, no, Baobab tree,
perhaps its the wine but there is a
swarm of monstrous bees
exiting the hive we once called your mouth
no, its your tongue
sliding across white snow
a cheek, a belly, soft pads of each finger
just so

I am not sure your name is really your name
I am not sure I care to know the truth of things
just tell me a story
fantastical
about two penguins in love
that bear our fake-names like crowns
tell me the secret you keep under socks
who is the girl in your ribcage?
she is broken, too
we are all a little broken
we admit to this
but look how our hearts grow watermelon seeds
and reproduce like rabbits
look at all the thumping drumming
from our flesh, the skin taut and stretched
would you look at the way we dance?

What is a pint of blood for the offering
the sky is calling and we musn't refuse
what are your wings made of?
pheasant or peacock or dove
you crack wide open a grin
say, simple pigeon and
I understand your magic all at once
like a rush to the mouth
like a dive

Meet me at the top of a bell tower
with your notebook
or a dark cave lit by cigarette
you will fumble to catch my lips
the night's on fire
as the camera rolls behind an old bowling alley
I'll be in a dress from Africa, wearing sin
like rock and roll, I find you underneath
my fingernails
this dirt, boy, you've been wearing the same
shirt for days but smell like summer under your sweater
the rain never comes here
but your song sounds like home

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+ Mama (And My Heart Sings)

2008-09-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

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My San Fran angels have christened me "Mama." It was after I called Dusty Rose "Mama" in my sing-song way, how I call all the women I love, "hey Mama, can you turn the music up?" Baraka wrote this poem for me. He read it under a 1am street lamp in rural California, two hours from my Daly City futon during one of our poem-circles. The night before read it to me over the telephone but I didn't recognize it's title as my name. He laughs like how could I have missed the tribute in the story? There are other stories to be told, but for now, this space is just for his words. This sounds of a selfish statement of sorts, but of all the songs and poems I've gathered in my name, this is by far my favorite.

Grinding out a freelance job in the race against time, perhaps a nap before my feature at Dalva and Dig Plans. Ethereal and sleepy after 2am bedtime, 6am wake up, crowded in a bed with Baraka and Dusty, all three of us cuddled up like children, only a bit less innocent given the rum and the green and the whole evening.

Anyway, do read. I am so touched, I'm glowing. I wish you could hear him read it, all urgency and feeling and gut.

PS. Next day edit. I just realized the numbers in the owl are my birthday. I don't know how on earth he remembered this after one brief mention, but it speaks to how he really listens. That is rare, friends. I am trying to be a better listener, too, so I can be the keeper of birthdays.

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Mama (after The Gift, by Caits)
by Baraka Noel

You come over. We sit on the floor
sip sweet warm cold ice drinks

I ask you where you're broken
you remove three wisdom teeth
and smile softly.

I hand you an owl carved from oak
inscribed with seven two eight four

you whisper the name of
a man your father loved

this is not our first

I met you on the radio
so let me listen

am I another man breaking
in your daydreams? Breaking in
to your evenings?

Will I make you my horoscope?

I ask when you began mourning
you pluck a lemon from your pocket

may we peel this moment with our teeth
not to keep from sobbing
or to remember when we laughed

if half of us are accidents
we put the family in broken

excuse my profanity
the vomit in my beard
my tangled narrative
snared on your earlobe

we've stood here before

black plastic bags
stuffed with regret
packing wishes in boxes
in the trunks of cars
storage spaces stacked
with the pain we couldn't carry

I tell you the earth is spinning
so its hard for me to choose one point of view

you smudge three knuckles
across my forehead

open the driver's side door
I speak your name

Mama, may it hold 'till after language
I'm broke and you can half a piece

breathe in

this spell from a Griot called burrows

exhales

a man named ekebhumi
asked about your face

your jaw is birdsong
from a bear's cave

your tongue winds a time bomb

your breath of Adderal focus

I'm listening. What's real?

I miss wrapping my brother Alex in my arms
a cushion from right angles and gravity

this earth's core spins hot
as a blood vessel bursting
in granddaddy's brain

breathe in

exhale

are you thirsty?
How do you worship?
Place the answer on the roof of your mouth

do you worship?
do you thirst?

how are you?
may I hold your hand?
you can hold mine

what is more brave than trusting someone?
I wrote this so you would like me

do you

hear me?

she does

love

rise inside me like love
rise inside me like a family of tapeworm
you want the sky: alive and honest
I'm mostly hoping to be broke and whole

mumble

mumb

mum

my perfect/split into lovers and scattered

I am shrapnel from attempted suicide
afterbirth of a miscarriage

I am partial
I used to look at you and call us me

maybe this is why
we just met today

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+ A Late Night Letter

2008-09-10T03:14:00.000-07:00

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A public letter to my best friend, whom I miss very much.

Dear Marbre,

You are across the world and it's too far for my tastes. It's late in California, past 3am and my brain will not quit. I just got off the phone after a beautiful three hour conversation with a man in New York and I am thinking much about life. It is a fun house of smoke and mirrors, this act of being. Writing is all I can do to keep from waking the neighbors with an open throat howl to the sky. I am pocketing adventures and stories and love for us to share. I am thinking about what it means to miss someone. I can make a list of those I do not miss, and I can think of what name would sit on top. Who I do miss is much more temporal and shape shifters. It depends on each stagnant memory jolted to life by some passer by or happenstance or even small unobtrusive object. The trigger switch is a finicky and mysterious animal. My heart does know this: it is happy to have shed its old skin. It is excited for new touch and taste and smell. It remembers what unhappiness felt like. It constantly reminds itself to never settle for mediocre again, especially not in art, especially not in love. How could it when this unfolding universe is like a lotus at full blossom if you look with the right eyes? My vessel of a person is filled with gifts and song. Tomorrow I want to see the new Woodie Allen movie. I wish you were here to hold my hand and share laughter. There is so much beauty arriving like a living dream and there is no better partner-in-crime than you. To our many adventures to be had, no matter how far away.

I love you,
Caits

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And because my best friend is my best friend, this is what she writes back as a closing to a gorgeous email written just for me, moments later, apparently also awake and typing away in Amsterdam:

Randomly...

Neruda says...

"Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos."
("We, of then, now are no longer the same.")

and yet it doesn't make me sad in the least...
it's amazing watching us fly!

mar

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+ Wealth Consciousness & The Never Enough

2008-09-09T23:06:00.000-07:00

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5pm Journal Entry

Sitting in Virgin Megastore (every choice is big business in these parts), killing an hour over iced coffee before venturing to West Oakland for a "ghetto open mic," hosted by my new friend Dre. My life has taken on this amorphous "what will today bring?" glow sense of adventurism that fills me up with unparalleled joy. I rap, "what's goin' on in Oakland, the whole town be smokin!" and laugh, Dre replying, "are you high?" and though this is Cali, where a comment as such would normally not be off mark, I say no man, just in good spirits!

Yum.

I just came from coffee with Anthem Salgado, another Yarrow BK to Bay linkage. Anthem is a fellow poet, performer, educator and traveler, who just returned from a stretch in the Philippines. We meet at Powell, a commercial downtown area of San Francisco and he leads us to the restaurant at the ritzy Four Seasons hotel. "I'm trying to expand my wealth consciousness," he explains. In order to attract money, one must be comfortable around money. A good philosophy if any for a broke artist, so we get cozy on a couch, eating complimentary Wasabi peanuts and talk life journeys, loving being waited on like royalty in a pink dashiki.

Anthem, gangsta in the Four Seasons

The Four Seasons Ritz

A tip Anthem shared that I will, in turn, share with you: Whilst traveling, utilize hotel restaurants as work spaces. The staff won't ever know that you aren't actually staying there, the environment is cushy and comfy and you can spend little money on lattes but hours of uninterrupted work time. Mental note. Of course, Anthem is a "never-enough" artist, and like myself, full of unrealized projects and potential. Brimming with it. We share many of the same philosophies on our lives and work and after story and laughter swapping, we part ways but not without setting a date a week from today to "geek out" on our laptops. The plan is an afternoon of quiet company, working along side one another. This is exactly what this trip has been missing. I relish the thought of an opportunity to get cracking on these pending grants whilst still "expanding my left coast family," as Chris describes it.

The days have been flying here. To all afraid to uproot, explore, throw caution to the wind... I say, Man Up! Life is meant to be lived. I would have never described myself as a traveler, but here I am, crashing on couches (courteously, of course), literally letting the wind determine my next adventure and trusting that some great unknown force has my back. As Anthem and I discussed, it takes stepping out of your routine to learn spiritual lessons. Mostly, understanding how to feel distinctly comfortable in your own skin. "Wherever you go, there you are." The ole' bumper sticker adage rings terrifyingly true. The clouds overhead are moving through the sky visibly fast. The world is spinning on its axis and here I am.

10pm Journal Entry

And... here I am, listening to a wayward harmonica of a subway performer, waiting for the BART home. I made it out to Oakland to meet Dre, and instead, am greeted by "I", his sister. She is a poet too, and mentions names that make my New York heart smile wide. We rap for awhile until Dre arrives and head over to Dorsey's Bar, where he has just taken up residency as host. The bar is dark and full of drunk old men. The DJ plays early '90s slow jams and all I can think about is food, so we order Red Snapper and three soul food sides while I dodge the alcohol laden advances of random men. Dre looks at me apologetically, all the beer-amped swagger deflated from his sweet smile. Day two is always interesting. Christina, a big Beau Sia admirer, steps on the mic and reads two hilarious poems.

Poets out here are full of young vigor. Christina already had recognized my name via the Dalva and Chico slam announcements. Its a warm welcome. I tell her about Beau's birthday party a few years back, where he wore a ridiculous sequined shirt and we danced the night away, fueled on vodka and cranberry. She eats up the story like candy. I am pleased to be able to bring joy with such a small memory. Her energy reminds me of myself and Aja a few years back, before we became the people we are today, drooling and eager to meet each poet with a "name" and fire under their tongue. I stay at the open mic long enough to share one poem and Dre walks me halfway to the train. Feeling ready to be back home where I can commence to writing, Baraka rings.

Christina & I

Christina, I & Caits

Dorseys Bar blurry style

"Heyyyy Barrraaakkka!" I sing-song, happy to see his name flash on the phone, but knowing full well my adventure barometer has hit capacity and I will be declining any invites to a night on the town. My mind has gotten ahead of me once again, Baraka is not calling to hang, but rather, asks to read me a new poem. Now I am really transported three years into the past back to my Brooklyn stoop, sucking a cigarette and drinking in the fresh words of Rachel or Aja or Marbre or Survivor, or perhaps all, on a good night. "Of course! I'm just walking to the train." Baraka's words are fluid, gorgeous and moving. They touch something deep in me and I am thankful to have received this moment so graciously. No, Caitlin, he says, thank you for all the inspiration. Just how it should be. He asks about Dorsey's and I hem and haw a bit searching for ways to compliment the experience carefully and he laughs, seeing straight through my transparent charade. "Yeah man, I thought about going to Dorsey's to support Dre and all but then I'd have to take BART or drive and lurch up the place..." Lurch is a perfect description of how you roll up to Dorseys, I say aloud. We sign off with a "soon!" and I board the train, ready for home.

A new poem that was just dying to come out shoots outta my pen after reading Shruti's brilliant short story, full of magical realism and set in India. Of course I am housing with a writer, accidentally! I call her for directions home from the station, turned around by the night sky and never-ending parking lots and sigh this to her over the phone. Giddy, she responds that she loves my poems. We swapped over breakfast this morning. Another worthy exchange.

So I've somehow managed to pick up two more freelance jobs while I'm out here, which is welcome, of course, but I'll have to be more careful to balance work and play. Tomorrow, work for sure. So no new stories will be spun, but do know that I will be behind the screen spinning magic of a different nature.

'Till next time...

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+ Up From Smoke

2008-09-09T12:50:00.001-07:00

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San Jo' Slam Feature Recap Comin' Atcha!

Last night was the most fun I've had on a stage in ages! Of course, it seems to always be that when I'm dreading a show for one reason or the next, it steps up and proves to be an incredible experience and I'm glad for having pushed through, after all. I mean, I really wanted to be up for the slam feature in San Jose, I just felt horribly ill and after meeting up with Roy for coffee, spent most of the daytime alternating between sleep and a zombie-like state, splayed out on the futon, unable to do much but breathe and zone.

So, what is a gal to do but put on a dress that channels '70s icons and gear up to fake it 'till she makes it? Exactly what I did. The train ride to meet up with Baraka and Dusty Rose in the Mission for our trek to San Jose was painful. My head heavy and nodding out, I was still in "oh no" mode. However, getting in a car with this duo, plus two, Dre, a young poet and hip hop mc, and Tinkerbell, a newly sobered up badass poet, there is no possible way for a spirit to stay low. Baraka , foot heavy on the clutch, led us in a stop-n-start ride through the Mission to the high way, Dusty feeding him a sandwich at stop signs. His third time driving stick and we all laughed, whilst our heads bobbed back and forth, clapping when he didn't stall out. The car ride is full of excitement. I haven't been around poets that have this much fervor for the artform in a long time. Dre proclaims boldly that everyone in the car would be taking the top three slots in the slam (Caitlin not included 'cuz she's featuring!) and I grin, filled with their energy. About an hour later and we're in San Jose (or San Ho, as the locals affectionately refer to the area), the venue marked by a smattering of smoking poets, one characteristically pacing back and forth mumbling over a sheet of paper, reviewing a poem. Home!

The welcome was large for the small venue, filled with about fifty people, a black box stage in the middle of the room, an art gallery off to the side. A great space with beautiful acoustics, and purportedly much better than the old bar they used to inhabit, where I'd heard rumors of features competing with mullet-ed drunken hockey fans for airspace (and usually losing.) I'm offered a bit of Cali's finest medicinal herb and am feeling cooled out and present in the moment, despite the tiredness and aches. Easing in. The slam is a mix of interesting characters, including two middle aged men competing, which is a rare and welcome sight for sore poetic eyes. As all venues in this great world, most of the poetry was lack luster and unexciting. However. Apparently, unbeknown to me (though I had a feeling), I'd arrived with the cool crew. The four poets ripped through the slam, setting the stage and the audience on fire! Dusty Rose and Baraka teamed up to double-time it as their duo "Mumbles & the Dust" (how great is that name?), which poems about polyamory and love. Beautiful lines. My favorite off the dome, "with the permanence of the pyramids." Whoosh. Dre gets up like its church and Tink delivers some hardcore confessional-type words that get right at my heart strings. They remind me why I fell in love with performance poetry in the first place. Inserted with the fresh energy of my first step on the Nuyo's Wednesday stage. I am so thankful for this. Oh, and the four poets (B&D counting as one), of course, true to word, take the top three slots.

Before going on stage Baraka and Dusty give me a four-handed back massage that puts me in heaven and I feel like Mike Tyson being amped up to win a fight. I pretend to throw off the robe and throw a few jabs at the air in mock-preparation. I'm ready. There hasn't been a show that's gotten me this hyped to deliver in a long time. I want my new poet-friends to be moved, to feel inspired, to get a little bit back of what they've given me. And the rest is history. Dear readers, when I stepped on that stage a fire came out of me like I've never burned before. I read mostly old work, which felt new it'd become so foreign and it barreled off my tongue like fireworks. The audience was beautifully receptive and captivated, quiet as a mouse and all crowded together when I took a photo of them mid-set from thr stage. I left a good amount of Caitlin poems in various pockets and purses and exchanged pictures and love with a whole slew of lovely folks. Extra big ups to Kat and Chris and the DJ who's name I've forgotten like an asshole. I know it's my job as a writer to translate these experiences, but somethings are too magical and are simply untranslatable.

The SF crew and I roll to get one of the best burritos I've ever eaten in my life before departing for home. They try to convince me to a sleep-over but I kindly decline and the car ride is spent singing songs aloud like a bizarre family unit, Tink's leg draped over Dre's, Dre's hand on my knee. Have you ever hung with modern hippies like us? Dre asks and I laugh. Perhaps they are modern day hippies, in a De La Soul, Three Feet High and Rising kind of way, but I'd have never tagged them that, just expansive-spirited folk. Because I didn't get to close my set with the prayer, they ask me to read it in the car. Their hum vibrates in my bones. The energy shifts and opens a space for another piece. This time, I read them Yusef Komunyakaa's "To the Performance Poets..." You're gonna flip, I warn them, and spout the poem off like rockets. Yep. They flipped. Tink asks me to read it to them again. I would have read it 1,000 times over, should they have requested. Instead, we talk of Oakland Hills, a sack of greenery and poems to round robin. Salty lips and thick juicy hugs, I am buzzing so fast sleep is futile. I write a bit before hitting the pillow dreaming to blow off the steam.

I am in love with them all. Thanks, beautiful people, you've made my trip something to write home about.
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+ Sum of That Fine Cali Medicine

2008-09-09T02:09:00.000-07:00

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Sometimes all it takes is a night with amazing people (San Jo'!) to make one feel a-ok. I need some sleep badly, but stories to come tomorrow! For now, enjoy the visuals. P.S. Thanks to all y'all who texted me/emailed positive energy. It's good to know my folks have my back in this crazy universe!

(Feeling blessed.)

P.S. Why I'm not an emcee. Written in a late night email upon returning to the crib:

In San Francisco and the city is brand new
but 'round 5pm, find I'm down with the flu...
so I thought to myself what would Raashan do?
'bet he'd still jump on the stage
and break that shit in two!
hm, I said to self, that's just what I'll do
Brooklyn blowing through to show
how little San Jo' knew!

Ahhh shoot!

Did I mention I could use some sleep?

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Baraka learns to drive stick shift

Tinkerbell & Dre

Baraka, Dusty Rose, Dre & Tink

Part of the San Jose Slam audience

Zombified

Chris & DJ at San Jose Slam

Dre, Poet & Tink in front of venue

Dre & Kat at San Jose Slam

Caits & Chris: saucy! at San Jose Slam

Is that a chapbook in your back pocket...

Or are you just happy to see me?

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+ Caitlin Meiss is the Illest (Literally)

2008-09-08T15:42:00.000-07:00

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Surprise, surprise, I'm sick with a show to do in San Jose tonight. Body aches, exhaustion and chills. I've been drinking tea and popping emergen-C's and resting before departure. 'Bout to brave a daytime Theraflu and hope for the best. Give all your blessings to me that I go on, rock the stage and sell product despite! Then, after tonight, I can sleep all day tomorrow.

Frustrating. But its me, you know. When I push a lil' too hard, it comes on like rain.

Grumble.

Ok- I'm in receiving mode. Send positive energy 3, 2, 1... NOW!

Zing!

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+ Friendly City Rockers

2008-09-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

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Too much sun + not enough sleep + cold weather finally rollin' in + a household of sick ladies + a long weekend + one super cuddly cat =

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Today was all about Grind for the Green's outdoor concert at Yerba Buena Gardens, which I arrived to just in time to catch Raashan Ahmad (+ Woodstock) of Crown City Rockers, who greeted me with a big fat hug after an online tip-off and proved that Cali is home to the humblest, friendliest folk around. Raashan, let's link soon! Rest of y'all, support him and cop his new disc, whydoncha? I did. Proof below.

Afraid I'm getting sick. Sleeping hella early.
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+ I'm Running Away to Join the Circus

2008-09-07T12:45:00.000-07:00

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Excuse my language, but seriously, where the fuck do I start? Today has been one of the single best days of my life. I know I say that a lot, but I really mean it this time! When I think about how I've always envisioned growing up, I'm pretty sure it looked something like this. And here I am.

Please be sure to at least read about the Yard Dogs Road Show because if you are a human being that, you know, likes cool things in the broadest sense, you really need to check them out. Otherwise, hang tight, this is going to be a long entry with lots of photos!

Today started on the corner of 19th & Irving, where the Meissner mini-van has scooped me up for a day of music and art. We're on our way to the Power to the Peaceful festival in Golden Gate Park, the brainchild of Michael Franti, which features a slew of artists, including Spearhead and Ziggy Marley on this year's roster. Grace asks me if I've ever been to festival like this and I shake my head no, vehemently. Sure, I've been to festivals, but never with such a just-stepped-out-of-the-60s vibe. Hippies abound, my veggie burger is copped from a stand called Black Uhuru (like the reggae band) and weed smoke fills the sky like its actually legal, all the way around. Characters appear everywhere, people on stilts, multi-being yoga formations, set to a soundtrack of Ziggy Marley playing his Dad's classic songs. Trippy, maaaaahn.

We dance our way through a drum and bass dance pit, post up to listen to the music, navigate through the crowd snapping photos. I run into Yarrow's friends and give big hugs and "ahhhh we've heard about each other for years!" shouts. The world connecting in big ways! I even find that healer dude from Union Square who I've seen on a dating show and "Yo Mama." Yeah, that guy, who is like seven feet tall. "Hey man!" I say, "You're from New York!" I'm here now, he shrugs. "Can I take your photo?" I ask. Can I have a sip of your juice?, he says. Exchange. Before leaving we sit in the beautiful woods on a log sharing stories. The festival ends with Grace and I shaking in time with Lloyd's Family Samba band and the sun is warm and forgiving, feet aching. Check out the photos below. Take particular note of my huge grin.

(P.S. Can I live in this record store?)

Exhausted, but still with a long stretch of night ahead of us, the fam and I find ourselves at a Thai restaurant where you must give over your shoes in exchange for a seat on the carpeted floor. We ease our bellies with a delicious meal, all sharing from different dishes, legs crossed authentically and fueling up for what promises to be an even more wonderful evening.

Ok. More Dad stories. My father, AKA the cool older cousin with the long hair (but don't call him a hippie or he'll pop ya in the jaw), rock record under arm, used to hang at the Fillmore East in New York City back when The Who and Cream and all the other classic '60s band were rocking the roof off. I've always been a hungry audience for his stories and have held his saved yellowed programs in my fingers like treasures. Needless to say, going to the Fillmore in California was a dream lived. How badly I wished my father was there with me to share in the experience. All the posters that cover the walls, just like the Mothers of Invention authentic flyer that hangs on my bathroom well, relics from a time when creativity and music were blossoming and bursting like fireworks in the sky. The energy of the history living in the space was palpable. I have Maya and Ivy pose in front of a large photo of Janis Joplin and opt for my own goofy shot in front of our family's special band, pointing at Pete Townsend and Keith Moon. A man at the door in a top hat gives us a carnation, which we were in our hair until they fall to the floor due to dancing. Grace lines Rick's eyes with eyeliner for the occasion, which makes the girls momentarily embarrassed until I remind them how rare it is for a 50 year old Dad to get down like that.

We are here to see the Yard Dogs Road Show. I'm not sure what to expect, but judging from the crowd, I've been missing out on an entire subculture that is somewhere between rock-a-billy, rock n' rock and circus freak. Everyone is adorning pin stripes and vests and havana hats and has big plugged ears and flowers in their hair and tattoos galore. These people are stunningly gorgeous and I contemplate switching up my whole style, but think, nah, I'd just be a poser, to use 7th grade terminology. We post up in the cafe and admire the concert go-ers, drinking in the phenomenal visuals. I think I fell in love twenty times over with various strangers. My new rule is don't step to me unless you've acquired a weird talent like playing an instrument you invented or sword swallow or something equally as fantastical and bizarre.

So, the opening act. Of all the amazing things I've seen people do with a loop machine, I have never witnessed someone with such a deep, strange groove as "That 1 Guy." Aptly titled because you know people refer to him as such, "you know, that one guy we saw who has this like one string bass made of pipes and plays an electric cowboy boot and makes hilarious faces but his music is unreal?" Like a more eccentric Les Claypool (yes, it's possible), the bass player from Primus, if you remember them, this man plays an amalgamation of drum and bass beats on a contraption he clearly created that he plucks and hits and bangs on, and looks like a science experiment, but mysteriously produces these incredible sounds. All the while he looks almost Amish and totally uncool, but suddenly really cool because of what he is creating in front of your eyes, with really silly lyrics, and at the end of the set, you start to notice that not just yours, but everyone in the room's jaw is hanging wide open, the live show is that impressive.

Break to watch the magic:

This is followed up, of course, by a man in a full body, so-tight-you-can-see-his-package, shiny electric blue bunny suit introducing one member of the Yard Dog's Road Show, who proceeds to give a hilarious strip tease, peeling off layers of ridiculous boxers and speedos and socks until he is in a see-through thong with hearts on the ass. What? During the intermission that follows I can only imagine what is to come.

Except I couldn't have ever begun to imagine anything close to what The Yard Dogs Road Show put on that legendary stage. I mean, I've been thinking about how to describe this all night but its nearly impossible. A live band experience that mixes rock and roll, cabaret, circus sideshow, magic and burlesque into one hugely successful and shocking package. Hands down the best live show I have ever seen. Even though every muscle in my body ached, I couldn't sit down, nor tear my gaze away from the stage, even for a moment. I hollered and hooted and laughed and stood bug-eyed with a huge grin plastered on my face and thought, "Ok. I get the word groupie now. Count me in!"

Here is one small moment of the show to give you a sense of the utter organized chaos and madness that ensued: The sword swallower/percussionist (all the members are multi-talented), adorning a top hat and cirus-esque stripped suit, impossibly swallows a long pink balloon, the kind that clowns use to make balloon animals out of, and pulls out yards of colored scarves, which he bunches up and just when it looks like he is about to throw the bundle into the audience, he unveils a live chicken, which he then places on the trumpeters head, who, it must be said, is stripped down to boxers and a tie after the last crazy part of the show, and he plays there with the chicken atop his head, all the while the band spinning out some vaudeville-meets-psychedelia original soundtrack.

The show ends with the sexiest burlesque act, a feather fan dance and sparkling sequins-ed titties and the trombone player lady (could've been me if I stuck with that damn instrument of the elementary years!) belting out Janis-style, until the feather ladies cover her with their fans and unveil her, at peak-of-belt, in her own gorgeous sexy night-ware get up. The crowd goes crazy, the band beats on and I curse to Rick and Grace, "this is the most amazing fucking thing I've ever seen! Thank you so so so much for taking me here!" They laugh and nod as if to say, "didn't you know this is what you came to San Fran for?"

Surreal and other worldly. Those who know me well are aware of my slightly off-kilter obsession with 1930's freakshows, and this was so up my alley in an unexpected way. I was floating in performance heaven. Please, if you know what's good for you, check out the videos below. And SEE THEM WHEN THEY COME TO TOWN. I promise, you'll leave head spinning.

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Yanked from the website:

The Yard Dogs Road Show is a hobo cabaret, a living patchwork of vaudeville and rock and roll. In the enchanting land of stage show entertainment theirs is both pleasant and formidable terrain. They require a sensitivity to the subtle and the absurd. They lead the modern hobohemian on a visual and sonic journey through part of history that may or may not have existed – followed by an ambitious return to the emotional challenges of our punch-drunk contemporary world. It’s a true story on stage: sword swallowers, dancing dolls, fire eaters and sunset hobo poetry - all animated by the live sounds of the Yard Dogs cartoon heavy band. Yard Dogs Road Show is pure visual and sonic voodoo.

Born from the saloon vaudeville that toured the Wild West in the late 1800's and slammed into the underworld of modern American road culture. The Yard Dogs create a timeless space for the union of ancient theatrical alchemy and modern pop culture.

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+ Morning hello!

2008-09-06T11:15:00.000-07:00

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On the fly photo. Cop this shirt at my friend Rachel's new store! In person or online at http://www.arkayworkshop.com

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"Everyday is a good day!" (Waves to Eagle Nebula)

Some things I am looking forward to, starting today:

(Also Yard Dogs Road Show @ The Fillmore tonight!)

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+ In Your Funky Town: Housequake!

2008-09-05T20:53:00.000-07:00

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"We gonna shake, we gonna quake
cuz we got the baddest groove that we could make
we on then to, y'all the drummer's gonna tap
we gonna see if we can rock this motha to the max
and that's a fact, housequake
Shut up already, damn!"
- Prince, House Quake

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4.0-magnitude earthquake rattles San Francisco Bay area but doesn't affect Pirates-Giants game

(more here.)

Well that's good to know. For a minute I was really worried about the game. (Roll of eyes.) Better yet, it didn't interrupt my blogging! Guess I'm really in California now, having experienced my first live earthquake. I just thought the people upstairs were having really insane sex.

It's painfully early to be in on a Friday night but I'm suffering an acute case of exhaustion. Chris says I'm always tired and he's kind of right and all, but this time I had a really packed full day of newness and people and things and I'm genuinely tired, dammit! I just left my friend a voicemail asking how he travels so much. The thing is, at the end of a long day its pretty tiring to be constantly interacting and is it wrong to opt for a night in whilst in the midst of a new city? Most of me wanted to come home and read, alone. Plus I got to thinking, this isn't New York. In my city I'd know exactly the train home and the amount of cab fare, should it get too late to safely transit the J Train way. Here, the public transit stops running early and I don't have a wallet big enough to dole out the exorbitant cab fare so... BART to Daly City it is. The house is still and there are a few alcoholic beverages buzzing in my system. Cooled out.

Enough justifying my old lady habits. Today was big Fun (the capital was necessary.) I headed to Civic Center to parlay with my friend Stewart, whom you might remember from the Ghana blog. He is a fiction writer, excellent dancer, huge-spirited fella who also happens to be a freakin' librarian. I mean, really, recipe for cool. (Or hot, as Rick and I discussed the other night. Cool is totally boring. Hot is where its at!) I met Stewart in Ghana, where we were both attending the Pan-African Literary Forum, and we both gushed over one another's beaming auras. Zing! He took me to the library, which he is bored of, but was exciting for me because its huge and circular and I got to go into all the librarian-access-only areas, which made me feel a little bad ass in a bookish way. Story of my life, if you haven't noticed.

"Um, Stewart, why do I look trashed at 2pm?"

"Stewart, you WILL look into that camera and you WILL smile!"

Parting ways with a promise for dancing (8pm Sunday night in Oakland, anyone else interested?) and I headed over to meet some mystery poets in The Mission for a feature spot on Pirate Cat Radio. Ok. Here is where I pause to honor and give a Wayne's World-esque praise-thee bow to Charlie Getter and Jonathon Siegel, who scooped me up and welcomed me into their poetry family circus. Charlie is downright hilarious. A crude and fast sense of humor but totally big-hearted and I instantly took a liking to his silly ways. Jonathon, more mild-mannered and the one who hooked me into two new gigs by way of some random myspace searches that somehow led him from Jon Sands to me (another notch on the why-myspace-is-better-than-facebook belt.) Hey, thanks Jon, for indirectly hooking me up with some great people! Anyway, can I tell you about Pirate Cat Radio? Break for the pulled-from-website jargon:

Pirate Cat Radio 87.9fm is an unlicensed low powered community radio station, broadcasting on 87.9 megahertz, to both the San Francisco Bay Area and the Los Angeles basin.

We believe that Title 47 Section 73.3542 of the U.S. Code of Federal Regulations currently allows Pirate Cat Radio 87.9fm to legally broadcast with out a formal licence from the FCC. Thanks to George Bush for declaring the "War Against Terrorism", it is now technically legal to operate a radio transmitter with out a formal license.

Which means, a) you can say whateveryouwant on air b) really rad people are involved and c) they get to have a vegan cafe in the front where you can post up and look in the radio booth and listen via loud speaker. Needless to say, I had the time of my life. In my head, when I envisioned this trip being a by-the-seat-of-my-pants, fly by the night kinda adventure, this was exactly what I had in mind. I read four poems, and after expressing how awkward reciting with headphones on, in-booth can be, Charlie set up a mic in the cafe for me to get live on. However, let it be known, if you are ever on Pirate Cat Radio with Charlie Getter, do not look in the booth, the man wilds out when you read a poem. Snapping and making hilarious faces and jumping up and down and should the show be archived, I'm sure you'll hear it in my voice. Holding back laughter, even on the serious poems.

Charlie, probably saying some funny shit...

Jonathon cheezin'

Rachel, I am coming to your bar this week!

I swear, Charlie, you gotta stop making me laugh!

Seriously, dude!

In short, good people all around, random poets kicking it at the cafe, especially Dusty Rose and Baraka, who just happened to stop through at the right moment. Baraka dedicates a break up poem to me, which makes me feel like an old friend even though we've just met, and come to find out they are going to the San Jose slam on Monday and would I like a ride since I'm the feature poet? Hell yeah! Forget the three buses and fear of n'er returning home to Daly City. I'm so in for the trip with two excited folks who take me in their arms like long lost family. And those names. Like characters in my unwritten novel.

Baraka gets serious

Dusty Rose does the damn thang!

In the way the universe has been handing me life on a silver platter as of late, Rachel, my favorite camp counselor from twelve years ago, the one who ran the artshop and taught me how to make metal jewelry, who listened to Portishead and had a really cool tattoo of a Japanese beetle, yah, that one, had her store opening right down the street from PCR. Icing on the proverbial cake is that her sister Sara, also my friend since age 12, happens to be in town and since we haven't connected the past two years in Brooklyn, this will set us off on the path to being on each other's friend roster again. Perfect timing.

I'm really bummed to tell you that the camera corrupted yet MORE photos! I wish I could show you how cute Rachel and Sara are, and how good the shop looks and Tae being goofy posing with his custom-made messenger bags but... so be it. It will all have to live in my imagination and you'll have to invent stories in yours. It was a wonderful reconnect, to say the least, and amazing to see someone you've known for ages' dream realized in a way that is just so them it hurts the heart (in a good way.) Pictures to come because you know I will be going back to hang with Rachel in her new store. In the meantime, buy some cute stuff online: http://www.arkayworkshop.com

Too tired for anymore tonight. Bye good folks!
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+ Palm Trees Out the Ears

2008-09-05T11:43:00.000-07:00

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"you look like theres a palm tree atomic explosion in your ear on your icon thats kinda how i imagine you in caleeforneea"
- Bekah D. referring to the icon above.

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Quick note:

Catch me on Pirate Cat Radio today!
Common Thread @ 4-6pm (Cali time zone)

+ San Fran & Los Angeles: 87.9 fm
+ Berlin, Germany: 104.8 fm

All the rest y'all: http://www.piratecatradio.com

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See you later!

xo'z.

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+ On Account of Feeling Irie

2008-09-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

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"Can I tell it like it is?
Help me I'm sufferin'
Listen to me baby-Help me I'm dyin'
It's my heart that's a sufferin', it's a dyin'
That's what I have to lose

I've got an answer / I'm going to fly away
What have I got to lose?
Will you come see me
Thursdays and Saturdays?
What have you got to lose?"
-- Crosby, Stills & Nash, Suite: Judy Blue Eyes

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PSST! Public service announcement! The San Jose slam feature is not on September 9th, but September 8th. Cali folk, please adjust your calendars from Tuesday night to Monday night and come hang with a poet-lady.

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(When you travel alone you are forced to take cheesy photos of yourself standing in front of iconic structures and the locals laugh. So be it! Finally on the flip side of the tourist coin after my own share of grinning at non-New Yorkers.)

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Sigh worthy life. I just got off the phone with my pops, who let it be known, is my favorite person to talk about life with, on account of his always reaffirming the magical opportunities presented and laughing in disbelief, "I'll be living vicariously through you," even though his own vault of stories are pretty damn envy-worthy themselves. I'm writing a little bit in the voice of Bone, my new favorite character from Russell Banks' novel "Rule of the Bone," which I am rereading seven years later on account of it being a coming-of-age travel story that takes Bone from the small mountain town I spent my own summers in to the unlikely island of Jamaica and I am all about travel stories even if I just went to California. Irie. He says "on account of" a lot, which I've taken a liking to if you haven't noticed, and he is way cooler and more relate-able than Holden Caulfield, and Jen B., I think you'd really love this book.

Anyway. This reconnecting with family business is so perfect it feels dreamlike. Last night I braved two buses to Sausalito, just over the Golden Gate, which sounds like the name of a delicious meal but in fact, is actually a rather quaint touristy town on the water. Life of a traveling poet chapter one: your shows will be a random happenstance and you might find yourself in the company of old hippies more often than you'd bargained for. North Point Coffee Company is a small shop that sits directly on the sea. The room is full of folding chairs and middle aged folks who, like Rick says, you never know which old dude in tennis shoes was once hanging with Kerouac and Dylan back in the day. Rick, by the way, if you haven't picked up the names yet, is my Dad's cousin. He is a musician and landscaper and totally cool in the way you always hoped your uncle-figures would be. I was so honored that he, his lovely wife Grace, her brilliant five year old daughter Sophie and my second-cousin, super-awesome seventeen year old Maya came to check me out. (Ivy, Maya's sister, was so there in spirit.)

(A blurry Maya & Rick, on account of the crappy camera)

The show went well. My co-feature, the hilarious and slightly-raunchy May Garson, set it off with laughter and wide-eyed, "what?" stolen glances to family members. She was a great poet to share the set with, as different as our work is, and turns out Yusef is here favorite poet too, go figure. As usually happens in such settings, my set went off without a hitch and I invited the room to join me in Brooklyn. They arrived with whistles through the teeth and captive expressions and head nods and big handshakes complete with juicy thank you's when I had to step out a bit early on account of the five year old being tired and my family kindly offering up their home as it was closer to the venue than Daly City. Left buzzing with my product in the hands of Roy, the super-friendly host, to barter off without me and a promise to connect and collect later in the week.

After dropping off the kids and Grace, Rick and I went to get a bite to eat in their town of Fairfax, which Stewart scoffed at on the phone, but proved to be a new-agey, green-friendly hang out that hosts its own share of open mics and is home to many artists. Rick, who may I remind you, I have no recollection of ever meeting, though I'm sure I must have once as a very small child, and him and I get on so breezily you'd think we'd been family for years. Well, technically we have been, but you catch my drift. We talk about father-daughter relationships, him sharing that he sees a lot of my father in me and my heart swells with pride. If you know Hanns, you know what a compliment that is. He tells me about coaching Maya through the college process. How one night she comes home emotional over the choices and not knowing what her future will bring and he pauses her, "Maya, what is the one thing you do where time stops?" Art, she responds. "Well, that's what you go to school for then." I applaud his good parenting and he laughs, admitting to other foibles, but I see the way his girls relate to him and it's wonderful to bear witness to.

Through the course of the meal, random characters breeze into the joint. Neiel used to work for Rick and is a musician and graphic designer and we instantly get on discovering we've both been to Ghana. Shortly after Annie whirls in like a dervish, an old friend of Rick's from high school. The story is they remet some thirty years later in Fairfax, a far cry from their native Long Island and both grew up to be musicians, after all. She reminds me of Janis Joplin, her energy all over the map, but warm and larger than life, and apparently she owns a set of lungs to rival. Listening to Neiel and Annie talk about their experience at Burning Man festival this summer I think, "where am I?" Some parallel universe, to be sure. I kind of feel like I have stepped into a time machine and am back in the 1960's, or maybe it is 2008 but I'm watching myself on the extras of a DVD about folk musicians in a surreal dreamlike encounter with a version of me thirty years earlier, full of wonder and awfully sprightly. All very strange and wonderful. Perhaps some of this ambiance was due to Rick's stories of my Dad being his older teenage cousin way-back-when, rolling into Long Island from Teaneck, New Jersey with long hair down to his ass, a fringed jean jacket, Chuck Taylor-ed feet and the latest Who record under arm. My Dad was wicked, don't get it twisted, and utterly handsome too. You would have had a crush, I'm sure.

Upon arriving "home," I find the West Coast Meissner's dwelling wonderfully warm and lovely and after a very frank and hilarious conversation about drug use and a bowl of cookie dough ice cream, the adults all part ways for bed. I cannot tell you how comforting it felt to be in their home, sleeping in Maya's bed who was off at her Mom's house and seeing the posters for their band "The Meissner Sisters" adorning the walls. I spent a few hours on the phone with a New York friend whom never fails to make me laugh, but I did not miss home nor him anything other than a slight tug, which was also comforting on account of my heart can be a funny creature and do things contrary of what it should. Glad to report it's in the right spot this go-around. In the morning, Grace cooked me up some eggs and we had a fabulous girl-talk session before Rick arrived to ship me off to the Ferry, which I chose over the bus for it's views and sea-air. The perfect choice. I even had a random conversation with a traveling family from Ireland and got to brag about my little sister and her recent trip. Oh, and listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash on a ferry ride is an experience I highly, highly recommend if you want to feel like all is right in the world.

After a long day in transit, I finally arrived to the homestead and ventured to Oakland to catch an art show. Of course, not everything can be smooth about such a trip and the gallery was, sadly, closed. Must've gotten the dates mixed up. Too exhausted to do anything else, I wasted the $7 on a brief wandering of the run-down shopping district, snapped two photos of the only two things worth snapping photos of and here I am, still on New York time and sleepy. I have a long day tomorrow so after some more novel reading, bed it is.

Loving the solo journey. All this time alone is doing me so good! Oh, and if you read that all, I am both super impressed and thankful for your interest in my trivial sojourning. Hey, why don't you leave a comment?

PS. I just got an email from Roy, the host at the poetry reading last night, whom I am now getting coffee with upon scooping my dough and left over product. Of course, he sends me a poem he wrote about the coffee shop we'll be meeting at. Folks out here sure are a special breed. That is so something I would do. Feeling right at home.

PPS. Check out my girl Sallome's travel blog. She is doing amazing and inspiring things!

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"I was feeling a little sick about the whole thing but it was too late and besides I didn't have any better ideas and neither did I-Man, although I knew that wouldn't bother him because except for things like his veggie patch and other day-to-day activities I-Man wasn't really into ideas and plans and suchlike. Mostly he just took things as they came and made all his adjustments on the spot. He was like the opposite of my friend Russ and most people in America who flip out if they don't have a plan for the rest of their lives and I have to admit there was a little of that in me too."

-- Bone, Russel Banks' character in the novel Rule of the Bone

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+ Day Four: What Cool Breezes Do

2008-09-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

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Cody, Ella's cat whom I met when she first scooped him from the litter five years ago, has the right idea. What cool breezes do. I'm lounging out on this beautiful Wednesday afternoon, getting some work done and listening to music.

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Quick note: 2 more shows added to the roster!
If you're in the Bay, come hang:

05 Sep 2008, 4-6pm
Common Thread on Pirate Cat Radio 89.7fm
San Francisco, California
Tune in!

11 Sep 2008, 7-9pm
Poetry Mission Feature @ Dalva
3121 16th Street (near Valencia)
San Francisco, California
Cost: Donation

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So, Questlove's radio show, These Are the Breaks, on Red Bull Music Academy is simply of universe destroying magnitude. Teaching the babies, playing the original songs sampled in your favorite hip hop digs. Do yourself a favor, hang up your judgement shoes and just freakin' listen.

Speaking of hip hop, I've been working on Eagle Nebula's banners. Of course, the best part, the type treatment and photographs are not my doings. I'm responsible for making the pieces work together. Check the first drafts (as usual, click to see bigger:)

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PS. DO YOU SEE THAT? It's a Frieda Kahlo temporary tattoo!! I couldn't resist. Thanks for indulging in my silliness. Wooo do I know how to amuse myself. See ya tomorrow! I'm off to Sausalito/Fairfax for a show/fam reunion. 'Till tomorrow...

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(Hmm... maybe I'll get one for real.)

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+ Day Three: The First Dance

2008-09-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

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"Day one, the first call started it all
your voice left me no choice but to pursue
nervous at the thought of meeting you
left the outcome to chance
day two come that first glance
day three the first dance..."
- Ursula Rucker...

[...whom I imagine MUST be talking about San Fran upon her first visit!]

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(I may have been a goofball this morning, but don't those photos fit with one of my favorite Frieda Kahlo pieces? I was yet to know that the day would find me viewing that piece up close in person, but apparently something told me the pose was to be captured on film. *coughI'MPSYCHICcough* Ahem. Commence to reading.)

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While New York doesn't blink twice, San Fran loves a white girl in a Dashiki. How many compliments did I get on my om steez? Five! But enough with the free-form jokes. Here is travel log transcriptions, straight from my journal to your inbox:

So here I am, off the BART at 24th Street The Mission stop, randomly picked in true adventure style, enjoying an iced coffee, which I'll have you know, is to-tally living up to the purporting of its gigantic sign bragging, "best coffee in the city!" Phil's staff is bizarrely friendly (indicator #4,503 that we not in NY, Dorothy) and the weather is a godly perfect warm/cool blend throwing down blessings. A good day to find oneself on a bench in the middle of a new city.

This morning I woke at 10am, finally well-rested and body-righted. After a few hours of the freelance grind and a half-planned trip to check out the Trust Your Struggle and friends exhibition (comforted in recognizable NY names- ups to EZC, etc!), Shruti arrives home just in time to scoop me up for a different day all together. Free admission at all museums! She was heading off to Yerba Buena, but I chose the $5 Frieda Kahlo exhibit across the street at MOMA, since I didn't catch it in Philly and have been bemoaning the missed experience for ages. We parted ways after a long trek on MUNI and I saved her number just in case my independent journey went awry.

The Frieda show was all it was cracked up to be. But did you not see that coming? I mean, it's Frieda Kahlo, for chrissakes. While viewing the work, I start to think about art as confession. I just read in Gala's blog this morning about women artists and our need to be confessional, to display our pain and wounds to the world at large. With paintings that are direct mirrors of her life (hence why she would not accept the title "surrealist"), I'm not sure there is an artist who does this more viscerally than Frieda (though I am also reminded of Anne Sexton, Audre Lorde and all of the other women writers I identify with, of course.)

Gala on Rukeyser on poem-as-confession:

"Muriel Rukeyser writes about the poem as a confession. The need for the poet to confess to feel whole. The way the confession of the unsayable is the breaking of a boundary, how poetry's breaking of boundaries is the tool for working for peace- for a common meeting space. I have always felt slightly ashamed about my needed to write things so openly, to put my inner intimacies and fears into public domains. It was for the first time, reading her words, that I realized how much putting my emotional truth into a world outside myself allowed me to relieve the weight of that truth from my insides- to give it life- the chance to work itself into a resolution."

Yes. Well put, Gala-girl. Us ladies have a very specific gift of turning pain into beauty, something that is even rarer in our male species counterparts (though they oft try to imitate but that damn ego gets in the way.) Before I left New York, Christina reminded me of the thin line between love and hate, how chemically these emotions live so close to one another in our bodies that it can become nearly impossible for their blood not to mix. Without getting too confessional on you, I'll just nod my head in understanding. Like Gala describes, I've, too, often felt ashamed of how I've put my bruises on parade. The awareness of the affect of one's journey on other's processes of healing melts away and I feel embarrassed about how little is kept private. Of course, we always chose what we show, but this idea of letting in and letting go is quite powerful. There are poems and writing I have never revealed to another breathing body for fear of how naked they are. I'm not ready to be this vulnerable for the sake of art, though I'm quite sure the rawness would move the reader more deeply than other constructed, considered work. When does one draw the line? Hard to know. The not knowing is part of the process, I suppose.

Coming across Frieda's "A Few Small Nips", up close and in-person was more difficult than I'd anticipated. Here she depicts herself splayed out, nude, full of bloody cuts leaking onto the white mattress. My gut turns over. Frieda painted this after learning of her husband's year-long affair with her sister. Each betrayal I've ever experienced wells in my throat like a tangle of hair and ocean salt. I find my forefinger and thumb pressed to the pulse in my wrist, as if to catch my own blood before it spills to the MOMA floor. Somewhere inside me whispers, "I know." Think of the line I wrote to Marbre in my poem for her I read last night,

"how many times we took the world
on our backs and swam upstream"

I so clearly, undeniably see myself and the women I love in the work of Frieda. Our collective bravery. It is at once astonishing and comforting. Frieda's face in her home movie crawls into my heart. What a gorgeous woman, uni-brow and all.

It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts after this viewing, but I find the clouds roll over in time as usual and I'm back in exploratory-mode. I wander downstairs and find the shock of a lifetime. There, on the MOMA SF floor, is my drawing professor from freshman year at college, Mary Temple's, unmistakable light installation, a fake-shadow of foliage painted on the wall! I am not allowed to snap a photo of the display, but capture the signage and text Alan the coincidence with an obscene amount of exclamation points. (The photo below was yanked from her website.)

Afterwards, with the stretch of the afternoon ahead of me, I hop BART to the Mission. Note that the transportation system here is not as easy as people have claimed, though I navigate it fairly quickly, snagging my monthly pass like a true, er, Francisco-ian? Not exactly sure what I'll find in the Mission, but have heard the name of the neighborhood in passing conversation with friends, so why not?

Upon exiting the train I listen to a voicemail from Rox C., one of my best homegirl, Yarrow's , best homegirls and I feel thankful for the extended family I've been promised. The rest of the afternoon was spent snapping photos of the incredible amount of murals that exist in the area. Mind-blowing and indescribable. Best to just look at the pictures below. Funny life as it be, I happen upon the show I originally intended to see today at the Galeria de La Raza, "On the Wall", and true to form, it is dope. Big ups to Trust Your Struggle. Holding it down. I'm sad to report that Ella's crappy digital camera did, in fact, crap out on me and half of the photos were not able to be imported. Among these were the TYS show shots. Apologies to those non-Bay dwellers interested in their beautiful cross-cultural commentary on immigration. So it is. Though I am particularly bummed about the photo where I was singing a duet with this mural dude. Ok, ok, universe! Another day in the Mission it will have to be...

And as you've guessed by now, I'm home safe at 10pm, a skip in my step and feeling cozy in my own skin. Found an email from a "fan" who had snuck into the back of the poetry reading I did last night just to catch me, offering up another feature spot (just before Digable Planets with Beth!) and a radio interview. Woo! Looking forward to tomorrow, which brings another show in Sausalito and a sleep-over at my family's house in Fairfax. This trip is gonna be bananas fun.

Enjoy the saved flick-age! Hint: be sure to click the photos to see the murals close up. Unreal.

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Dudes [at MOMA] all look the same...

(MOMA) I'd like this to be in my house one day, kthanks.

You have to stand in line for a MUNI pass!

HOW NUTS ARE THESE MURALS?!

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+ Day Two: Any Day a Magical Day

2008-09-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

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" Anyday spent with Caitlin is a magical day..."
- Tina Gaudy OTP myspace comment

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PSA: This blog is mostly for my mom. I hope you recognize, Mom! (Wave) Who else really cares to read about your daily ventures? Also, all photos taken with Ella's crappy digital camera. If anyone wants to sponsor a (po')et with a camera of her own... Ok, ok. I'm not holding my breath. Go on.

I'm backtracking now. It's actually day three but I'm here to tell you about day two, just revived from a excitement-laden phone exchange with my Jen B., who is unfairly in the same state but no where close to my arms. Soon, my lady, soon! Its midnight and I know I should be sleeping, but tomorrow is a day I've given to a) cooking beets b) working on freelance c) writing d) preparing for my show and e) reading my book. Therefore, a late wake up is in order. Trying not to get too caught up in the "must always be out of the house" nag on my toes, after all, as Jen reminded me, part of this trip is the new pace Cali offers: slooooowed down.

So yesterday. I woke with a funny tummy and achy muscles from travel and lack of sleep. The New York insanity I just left hit me with a big "take it down a notch" warning once the adrenaline wore off. Giving in, I lounged on the couch/bed and allowed my novel to swoop me away. Ella returned from laundry around 1pm and I gathered up all my strength for a small excursion over the hills to beach town extraordinaire, Pacifica (I know, the name alone), for a small hike. On the top of Mount Montara, everything is dwarfed. The houses, the people, one's place in the big, big world. Beautiful views and a heart that proved to steadily pump... peace. The birds flying over the valley struck me as particularly poignant. Thankful for some nature after life in the concrete jungle.

After a delicious communal dinner on the homestead, Ell and I drove to my first feature at the Gallery Cafe in Chinatown. Let it be known, the streets are no-joke steep around these parts. Someone back in Brooklyn warned me of this. "Don't drop anything! You'll be chasing after it as it rolls swiftly away from you!" True this. There are even stairs built into the sidewalks to help descent the incline.

Anyway, as suspected, the venue held a melange of unlikely characters, mostly white-skinned and white-haired, some who looked suspiciously homeless but probably were just old hippies. I was honored to read alongside Richard Beban, my co-feature, a poet who's work is page-driven and striking. Of course, I did a mix of off-paper and on-paper reading and was well-received, as I usually am in unlikely venues, selling more product than I'd anticipated.

Highlights of the night included Kit Kennedy, the kind-hearted host who read a poem I was incredibly moved by; Steven with his grinning baby Natasha, who recited a love poem that pulled my insides apart, all while holding the tiny human like a cool-art-dad; Ziggy, who video-ed himself playing harmonica as accompaniment to his I-love-San-Fran rant (scanning the clapping audience with his camera, a big plastered on smile riding his face); The hilarious poet in rainbow suspenders; A whispered confession about her first non-angry poem from a poet who's name escapes me; and Dorothy: the senior-citizen-with-punch who lamented digital publishing with a spirit well-under her 70+ years. Even Beth came out to see me read and the night was full of it's small treasures. I left giggling with Ella about the man who read ten short poems in a row on the open mic, not a word distinguishable from the next out his toothless mouth. It's always a fascinating sociological study to attend these under-the-radar art hot spots.

Distinctly thankful for this experience and each mini-experience that lives within. I visually imagine it like Russian dolls in my mind, one nestled in the next. This couch already feels like home and I'm happy to report that I'm beginning to master the "wherever you go, there you are" mantra.

In this spirit, I am compelled to share a poem I wrote to my sister years ago that describes this feeling. Enjoy.

"Sistersong" (For Lins, whom I have to call!)

Eight was an age of awkward and emotion.
I remember your stretch of insomnia
bursting into my room at odd hours
of the morning
where the cruel trick of the moon
cast monsters on the wall.
You stood by the door,
whispering me awake,
fingers nervous
and teeth clenched.
Long before braced and straightened,
they jutted like the ridge of a mountain
escaping the sweetness of your
mouth
with a turn of the lips
when I lifted the covers
and cradled you to slumber.

This is a different nighttime now.
I am no longer thirteen and
in the odd hours
I sleep with a lover,
but long for you
to wrap innocent around me
when I cannot sleep.
He will be gone in the morning/days/weeks/months
but you are the juncture
of forever

and here.

It is morning.
Bananas ripen to rotten on the kitchen counter
brown spots, the sweetest bits.
Outside the window a car is singing a Brooklyn streetsong
of boom/hiss/boom.
The sun reminds me how
summer shows your freckles.
I think to bring you love in a crate of blueberries,
count each one carefully
juicy and plump,
line them with delicacy
name them your character:

This one is for your patience

This one is for your beauty

This one for all the songs we’ve sang

This one your heart

your spirit
your laugh & it’s warmth.

How easily kindness comes to you.

You were birthed from the same womb
made of cinnamon
and white milk/
I worry you will give your every fiber
to people who deserve not a taste
of your sugar.

The spindly limbs
on a six foot frame.
The pride of height.
The hair,
shoulder length and yellow.
The belly,
the center of a body
Chipped toe polish
and dirty fingernails.

Save it.
Save it all for those who understand you
who listen with an ear to the every wall
of your person.
Save it for the pages that will tuck
your stories
under their armpits
and carry you like a book
that is not to be dog-eared
precious and respected.
Save it
for the street lamps
if no human can hold you.

We all search for a place.

At eight,
it was my arms
your head on my chest.
At seventeen you will find it
with a lover temporarily,
perhaps a friend, if you're lucky
most importantly,
within the home of your own bones
and any building
will serve only as shelter.

You will find it
on buses
and trains
on the floors of college dorms
or in the song on the radio
from long ago
you will find it,
and you will tell me stories
and I will wrap these arms big around you
sing you, sister
love you, sister
see you colors I never imagined
see you grow
be always right behind you
forever

and here.

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Mount Montara, Pacifica

Click for larger photo & spot the deer!

Look Dad, I'm hiking!

The streets are no-joke steep

Featured poet at Gallery Cafe, Chinatown SF

"Um, I know I'm an unlikely feature & all..."

Lookit all that white hair!

My girls: Beth & Ella support

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+ Couch Surfin': Stop One aka Magical Life

2008-08-31T22:03:00.000-07:00

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Coolin' Out on Goofball Status

Its 10:27am San Fran time and I'm lounging on Ella's couch: my new home for the next two weeks. It always take a day or two for my body to adjust and after a fitful sleep I'm all yawns. Jet lag. Perfect time to update. (Yawn)

The flight out went without a hitch. Aside for paying $50 to get my suitcase onto the plane due to copious product weighing down my baggage and almost missing the flight because of bad airport communication (changed gate), I am here intact. Ella, my closest friend during our three-summer stint as camp counselors at Camp Unirondack back-in-tha-day, picked me up at the terminal and we fell right back into our friendship as if a day hadn't passed between us. A mark of a good friendship. Ell is a labor union organizer and lives in San Fran with her wonderful girlfriend Shoshana and roomie Shruti. Their apartment is spacious and full of feng shui, light and meditation. I am happy to call their futon home for my first two weeks here.

After a short driving tour of the small city, we load up with organic groceries at the co-op (thank good, says my wallet- can I tell you Kombucha is only $2.99?!) and head to her home where we laugh and joke and catch up before sharing a meal at the super-hippy, super-Caits friendly Cafe Gratitude. This Cafe is the perfect landing for the trip. The food is seriously delicious and makes all the raw food spots in New York look amateur in comparison. The menu items are labeled "I am sassy," "I am beautiful," "I am gracious," (etc etc) and, yes, you must order them with conviction! We laugh at the new-agey-ness of it all, but secretly I love the affirmations and we fill out cards that belong to a game that is impossible to figure out. The cards have two lists from which you chose your name (see photo below.) I am now resurrected as "Buddha Gigantic Caits." Yes!

Today brings a hike and my first show. Off to prepare and shower. Excited to fill you in on new adventures to come...

For now, photos!

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PS. I received the most hilarious voicemail ever after exiting the plane, pondering my message that says, "have a magical day." Courtesy of the silly Mr. Maximus:

Have a magical day? That's what you tell all your voice mailers? That's how you greet them, have a magical day, as if to say, like what, like, like I'm going to the store and I reach for my wallet and a rabbit comes out. Like that kind of thing? Like if that doesn't happen its not a magical day?

Or like um like if I meet, you know, my mom or something or go on a date or something and I'm supposed to pull flowers out of my sleeve thats a magical day right there, boom, right?

Or maybe I could make somebody disappear or make myself disappear and then I'm having a magical day

Hmmmm, I wonder if that's what you mean by have a magical day. I'm not sure. I'll find out. If that doesn't happen, if any of that stuff doesn't happen, then it's like, I didn't have a magical day and then if I didn't have a magical day, then my day probably sucks. Fuck, I hope I have a magical day.

Ok. Bye.

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Dear readers, what do you think a magical day is?

I think it's all this & more:

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Exhausted Caits & her Long-Lost Ella

Home for the next 2 weeks

Ella's Street- Lookit that purple house!

I'm obsessed with Cafe Gratitude

The game we couldn't figure out... hmph, hippies.

Peep my new moniker: BUDDHA GIGANTIC CAITS!
(Click to see larger)

I knew bringing a camera into the bathroom would pay off...

Ella loves Shoshana!

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+ Goodbye New York!

2008-08-30T18:54:00.000-07:00

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Oh New York!,

With your garbage-laden sidewalks, magic re-connections, crazy "heard it on the J train" stories and endless pushiness, I am saying goodbye. Don't worry, it's only temporary. I'll be back on these mean streets come October for more abuse and usage. Us New Yorkers, we have a way of thinking the world revolves around your pulse. Even after traveling the world, there is something at your core that is inimitable, irreplaceable, inspirational. Keep a seat warm for me. I'll bring back some sun and vibes.

Love,
Caits

PS. Enjoy the mini tribute by way of random cell phone flicks snapped this August. Some fond memories created during cross-borough adventuring.

PEACE!

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Chris Rob ain't afraid of The Hulk!

Gracie will be the best mom ever!

Canarsie is Serious.

Ouch, bro.

Malaika....

feels the power!

Tina Gaudy & some gaudy shoes

Jeanann & Rico prepare for fi-yah

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+ What is the MVMT?

2008-08-22T09:34:00.000-07:00

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Peace & shout outs to the kind folks who've scooped me as part of their temporary team. Big hugs go to Rolando for his openness, kindness, brilliant-ness and all other 'nesses that describe good thangs. Sharpening my design skills to flex and deliver for September. Coming from a couch/cafe near you! In the meantime, check out what my new bosses do. I'm not bragging when I say my boss is cooler than your boss. It's just the truth:

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>> Parallel MVMT

Parallel MVMT is a creative consultancy specializing in business development, branding, technOrganizing™ and non-profit services. Utilizing unique partnerships with premium brands, we work to Combat the Mundane™ through progressive networks.

http://www.parallelmvmt.com/

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And under the auspices of P-MVMT is

>> Mad Hella

a slightly too-perfect-to-be-true website for my upcoming September migration & the purpose of this blog:

MAD HELLA/HELLA MAD is a monthly party and online resource that pays tribute to the daily, monthly and yearly commuters on the Bay Area-Brooklyn shuttle. Come enjoy the hardest hitting dj's from coast to coast and build on creating a conscious community of artists, educators, and everyday change agents.

http://www.madhella.com/

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Get hip to the MVMT.

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+ Because I Can & Mean It

2008-08-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

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STEAL THIS FLIER
& send it to your friends
in the Bay Area!
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(Click image for larger version)

Lots of time on my hands in September to/for:

linkage / building / collabing / workshoping / spiting / performing / loitering / aestheticisms / getting up / (with the) git down / tea drink / scheme / sing / dance / crate dig / laugh / talk sh!t / write / exquisite corpse play / hide n' seek / zone / ease / be / ADVENTURE.

They can hit me here: caitlin.meissner@gmail.com

Open & ready for all and any forms of dopeness & downness.

Begin.

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+ Pre-travel Jitters & the Brilliance of Rilke

2008-08-15T09:05:00.000-07:00

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"I foresaw your lament and knew that it would come. Now that it has come, there is nothing I can say to reassure you, I can only suggest that perhaps all professions are like that, filled with demands, filled with hostility toward the individual, saturated as it were with the hatred of those who find themselves mute and sullen in insipid duty. The situation you must live in now is not more heavily burdened with conventions, prejudices, and false ideas than all the other situations, and if there are some that pretend to offer a greater freedom, there is nevertheless none that is, in itself, vast and spacious and connected to the important Things that the truest kind of life consists of. Only the individual who is solitary is placed under the deepest laws like a Thing, and when he walks out into the rising dawn or looks out into the event-filled evening and when he feels what is happening there, all situations drop from him as if from a dead man, though he stands in the midst of pure life."

- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

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Now, I know... I am two weeks away from my departure, but all folks who really know, know I am a writer and, true to form, I like to write away my anxieties! So here I am, well in advance, giving the background story and blogging about the part of the trip no one really cares about anyway: the prep.

*Deep breath*

After returning just under a month ago from a life changing 2.5 weeks in Ghana, I am at once ready for another trip and feeling a bit of the "uh oh" kicking in. Have I been back in NY long enough to plunge into a new adventure? The unknown is looming, but brings a certain joy in that anything and everything can happen: the good, the bad, the ugly, the (please, universe, if you're reading) magical. Before I left for Africa, travel was heavy on the brain.

(To read more about why I was in Ghana and what I did there, visit http://caitsinghana.blogspot.com)

Feeling stagnant in Brooklyn, I decided 2.5 weeks away was simply not going to be enough. Couple that with a temporary job coming to close in August and a new job prospect not beginning until October, it left September a blank canvas for the creating. I'm telling you, people, dreams really do come true. I emailed a friend with a recurring dream that kept pushing onto my heart: I want to spend a month in San Francisco. Had you asked me to explain why, I'd stare back at you, mouth half open and a dumb look on what is otherwise a smart face. "Errrr... I dunno."

For years people have mistaken me for West Coast vibe. I can't count the amount of times I've had to correct inquirers that, in fact, I am from a small boring town in upstate New York and just happened to be blessed with really cool parents. With tons of, "you'd love the Bay area!"'s under my belt, a handful of friends who've relocated to Cali's artsy village and an inexplicable yearning to witness whether Oakland really IS Brooklyn's little sister, I sent the email out. "So here is my unshakable vision, I'm a lowly broke artist with a few different skills sets. Um, got any connections?"

Always ask.

Said friend comes back with a too-good-to-be-true offer to hire me in all my graphic design glory (no, thank you, Pratt Institute!), sacrificing a rather minuscule amount of time working in the grand scheme of the month, under his brilliant direction. Provided I can sublet my apartment (universe, if you're reading, I'm still waiting for this one) and spend the month couch-surfing, I'm in! Three emails to three lovely ladies later and my housing is secure. A few weeks pass and my tickets appear in my inbox. I'm really going!

So now, what is on the plate? 10 hours/week given to design projects, 4 poetry gigs (make note, it just takes a few good emails selling yourself with youtube links) and ample time left over to reconnect with old friends, make new ones, explore the city and surrounding nature, work on residency/fellowship proposals and get into any trouble I can sink my good teeth into.

As if this weren't enough, I have had the fortune of connecting with long lost family who live in Fairfax, just a 30 minute commute over the Golden Gate. After re-linking at a family wedding last weekend and subsequently having a rendezvous in Brooklyn days later, let's talk about my 2nd cousins whom I haven't seen since they were babies. Maya and Ivy are the two cutest teenagers to exist, quite possibly, in the history of the entire world. Fifteen and seventeen, they are the sweetest little 'imps you've ever witnessed, and they have their own band, titled (can't you guess?), The Meissner Sisters. Of course, the New York Meissner sisters got on with our California counterpart famously, and I am excited to tell you that when I'm in San Fran next month, I'll be joining the fam for dinners, sleep overs and catching a Meissner Sisters show live and in person. Their Dad, his wife and her cutie-pie five year old darling are quite special, themselves. I don't have to explain that there couldn't be a better time to re-meet family and how wonderful it is to instantly feel at home in their presence. The universe strikes again.

Lins (my sis), Ivy, Maya & Caits (that's me!) Meissner

So the moral of the story is listen to your dreams, act on your dreams, be your dreams. Do I sound like a life coach yet? Good! Poems are prayers. Write your own damn "letter to God" (ala The Color Purple) and manifest. I'll be updating this blog with my own stories of manifesting through out the month of September, cozy on someone-or-other's couch or cafe seat. And friends, please know this: I will have consistent phone and email access so unlike Ghana, where I dropped from the face of the earth, I am reachable and I DO want to know how you are.

Oh, and if anyone has an extra digital camera they can spare, I'd like to be able to take photos but don't have the dough to splurge. Hmm. Maybe I'll write a poem about it. (Hey, universe?)

Here is where I'll be, if you happen to be in the Bay. Come join me!

Monday 01 Sep 2008, 7:00pm
Gallery Cafe Poetry Feature
1200 Mason @ Washington
San Francisco, California

Wednesday 03 Sep 2008, 7:00pm
N. Point Coffee Co. Poetry Feature
1250 Bridgeway
Sausalito, California

Wednesday 09 Sep 2008, 7pm
San Jose Poetry Slam Feature
510 South 1st Street
San Jose, California

Thursday 25 Sep 2008, 8:00pm
Chico Poetry Slam Feature
Moxie’s Cafe
128 Broadway
Chico, California

Ain't nothing to be scared of in this life, only adventures to be had! (I'm telling myself as much as I'm telling you.)

See you soon!

Love,
Caitlin
caitlin.meissner@gmail.com