" 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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