Wrest.

April 17, 2006

"The winner of the rat race
is a rat." - ?

Before the first full day of meditation started, there was a day of checking in and getting situated and Formica countertops and thin crust carpet and durable white plastic patio chairs inside. Shoes came off at the door.

I like being on time.
I'm good for it.
Showed up at the beginning.
I went for a long walk in the field while folks trickled in and registered.

There was a black and white cat who greeted me in the field as if to say, "You're on the right path… Now you must pet me until I can take petting no more."
So I pet him.
A lot.
That night during the greeting session we were asked not to pet the cats.
They come from neighboring properties.

We were to practice noble silence and maintain equanimity without distraction.

Throughout the 10 days I steered clear of the little guy.
I did not give him a name.
It was a cat.
Staley, probably.

I watched a woman succumb to the pressure of the purr and pet him somewhere between Days 6 and 9. She petted him real good for two quick strokes then re-focused. I wanted to run across the path and the yard, arms up and arched, fingers curly, screaming "PET THE KITTY!"

I took a deep breath instead.

There was another cat with no interest in people. She sported borderline mange and walked with the urgency of Snuffalufagus, on tranquilizers. She maintained equanimity and had no desire to be cuddled. She was at least 127 years old in cat years, best I could tell. She was also in no mood to have psychic communication with me. There were several black & amber caterpillars and a woodpecker who were into it though. We totally connected.
 

*****
I believed in Santa Claus till somewhere around the second grade. There was consequence for not believing in Santa. No gifts. Exposing the Easter Bunny and other lies followed suit. The tooth fairy fooled me for at least three teeth to my recollection. For my first 23 years I was scared into believing in a God who would eventually and literally burn forever anyone who did not strictly adhere to His laws as written by man in a book using language that has long since been subtly mutilated.

There was my stepsister who stole from the offering plate, who lied more than she spoke. There was my aunt who lost both her legs and most of her family to the lies she soaked in. There was my dad and the reasons he chose to close the garage door and turn the ignition. There was the fraud of my former employer on Gig Harbor, and the millions of dollars he stole, and the mountains of hope he crushed just by lying. There were the days I lied about loving this place.

When I was 24 I worked with a family who were completely prepared for Y2K. They had a house in the middle of Nowhere, Eastern Washington and a thoughtful paper packet packed with loads of useful information, and expectations. I was to consider the packet an invitation. I coulda stayed with them through Armageddon if I wanted. There were documents and "evidence" and I was convinced, even went so far as to warn my closest friends (one of whom has still not lemme live it down).

I've believed in more twisted individuals and entities and selves than I could ever wanna recollect tonight; people and notions whose teachings I planted inside of me only to yield mediocrity, if not thorn, if not cactus, if not fly trap, poison bite, teeth grinder. Sawdust pulls up the stink.

My beliefs have cried wolf more times than I care to remember. I do not type this without a rise in temperature or a little embarrassed. Each time I get fooled I have the exact same dialogue with myself. It goes like this:

"Buddy, do NOT stop trusting people."

Then back, "I won't."

If I lose trust in people, what's that say about how I view myself? A pretty grim reflection.

So in the welcome session on the first night, when the catalyst of this international Vipassana retreat, S.N. Goenka, stated on paper his expectations of us, including surrendering our entire selves for 10 days to the teachings of Vipassana meditation, my internal dialogue went:

"WATCH OUT, BUDDY!"

Then back, "No shit."

I know where I stand now, especially when the ground gives way.
 

*****
Alex (the man who lived inside a room which was built inside the room where 9 others of us lived) has been practicing Vipassana meditation for over eight years. His eyes are big and curious and shy and welcoming. His clothes hang like burlap sacks. It is easy to want to hug him, not too tight, because he is aiming for love.

Plus, physical contact is not allowed.

I was glad to eat lasagna with Alex on the last day. We were both glad. I clearly got a lot out of Vipassana and wanted to know more about his life. I asked if he lived at the center full time and if he considers himself a monk. He let out a bent breath to show being tickled. He told me he had a job at a food co-op and a significant other, a home and… we shared a genuinely great meal. Toward the end of it my eyes filled with water. My eyes interrupt.

"So this is it isn't it? I mean, this is the answer."

I wasn't really asking.
Alex saw my eyes briefly and knew the feeling of sanctuary (comes like salvation).
I was experiencing it. He also knows that feeling will fall away and return as many times as I'll let it for the rest of my life as long as I'm able to simply observe the law of nature exactly for what it is. He saw that I understand how to live it and own it. He saw that I know where peace with my self rests. He saw a kid so sweetly situated in the first time, a first kind of extended stay inside.

Kids run off.
Alex knows about the come down for those of us practiced in landslides.
I could tell.
Didn't matter. I was experiencing the answer.
I experience the answer.
I am my own answer,
a complete unit,
not so divided like all the contrasted chatter bangin' out from the inside.
Distractions, if not passing particles I just suspend and focus on.
Tiny parts of the whole.
We are our own whole answer.
There's a way to come clean.
Maybe that's obvious,
especially to the dirtiest among us,
but talking it and practicing it are rooted in different places.
Lately I have felt rooted in different places.
 

*****
On Day 10, once we were welcomed to speak again, after lasagna lunch with Alex, I went to the room shared between nine of us. I lay down in my bottom bunk craving nothing, certain of the coming gong that would invite us to one last sit with the group in meditation hall. Michael A was the only other person in the room as I lay there.

It's been a while since I've had a chance to tell more of the Vipassana story. In case you don't remember Michael A or don't feel like reading the old entries to catch up, maybe it'll help jog your memory to know he was The Leader of the Gas. The ol' Gashopper. Master Blaster. Fart Simpson. Count Fartula. He lived in the su-burps. The Big Burper. Burposaurus Rex. Wyatt Burp. He was like the air tube in an aquarium. There was an endless river of gas wheezing and blowing and hurdling out of him. His actions were always loud and late and slammy and stompy and I experienced angry thoughts toward Michael A.

I made my first attempt to quell the anger on Day 9 when Michael A sneezed in meditation hall. I sat a tissue next to his cushion as a sign of care. I sensed his surprise. He'd been noticing my rude. He had brought out the rude, a few times. I have a tendency to reflect the very thing driving me crazy. Much of the time it's safe to call that "passive aggression." It's a fairly tasteless human trait. I'm embarrassed by how much I've used it in my lifetime.

As I lay on my bed silent despite the end of the noble silence, Michael A sat straight up on the edge of his own bed, putting socks on, not making the verbal contact I'd been hearing him make with others. He didn't feel welcome around me. I had already kept my head low in passing him before lunch. He knew I didn't want to speak with him. But, in fairness, I was keeping my head low because I didn't want to speak with anyone yet, not just him.

At any rate it was time to accept our met paths. I couldn't leave the Vipassana experience without acknowledging his presence sincerely…

"On Night 2 you stood up while you were sleeping and goochie goochie gooed the guy in the bed next to you." These were my first words to Michael A.

"I did what?"

"On Night 2 you stood up while you were sleeping and leaned over to Arun and looked at him and goochie goochie gooed him, just like he was a baby."

Michael A laughed. We had a good conversation. He did most of the talking. In the first five minutes he made a Crystal Gayle reference and accidentally imitated a pirate. I liked that a lot. It was a hard life for him. He was already upset with himself for talking so much that day. He's gonna have a crack at being a photographer. I listened.

I really like to listen when I remember to.

In the archives of this journal you'll find an entry titled "Sudden Movement" where the Vipassana meditation entries begin. Most of the entries following "Sudden Movement" are relative, and this was a continuation. There'll be more about that.
 

*****
Recently I dreamt that Remond fixed the garage behind the house where I grew up (from first through sixth grade). The garage was about to fall over on itself last I saw it. I was gonna take Re and show him the tree next to the cornfields where as a child I would sit and make things up and no one knew where I was. When I got back to the garage Re was fixin' it. If I had known how to do it I would have done it, but I didn't. So Re did. He was happy to be fixing it. Then he fixed the broken crops and they grew over the hills-were-green up to a sculpted gravel path. Dark spot. Turn back. Stay a while. It's being fixed. Trees sprouted. Then Remond fixed the broken house. He painted it too. He painted everything around me. Stealth. The whole town I grew up in finally felt happy. I woke up happy. I really dig wakin' up happy.
 

*****
I saw "Band of Horses" at Neumo's here in Seattle on Thursday. A friend in LA turned me on to them and sent me on my thousand-mile drive back up the coast with a copy. His voice, the lead singer, it took me to my firecracker chalk on the blackboard background. I was elated when I found out they were playing here in Seattle upon my return. Listen, if you were to go to Band of Horses (dot com) and buy their only CD "Everything All The Time" and you don't like it, I will buy it from you. (Track 9 if you can't wait for the discovery.)

And their presence was perfect.
The lead singer, Benjamin Bridwell, is purely astounding.
His voice is unreserved heart.
He was truly spellbinding.
Made me throw stiff arms up over my head bent at the elbow, like little boys do when they become so elated they want to punch or guard the air, teeth clenched and shiny. Probably little holsters around the waist.
 

*****
I've been slacking on the journal here. I don't like it to feel gratuitous, or like an item from a to-do list 6 billion miles long, and the truth is I've been sorta burnt out on exposing myself, so I've been waiting for a good moment to share. I kinda just wanna go into the turtle shell with a typewriter for a minute. My CD's not ready yet. We've gone back to the drawing board on a thing or two. I'm excited to tell you about it as soon as it's ready. It could be a couple months again. If anyone made specific plans to be there, sorry the release party announcement wasn't called off before now.

"If I'm lost it's only for a little while." -B. Bridwell

Upstroke, The Mange Cat

High Lights

March 20, 2006

"the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
in the rebuilt machinery of our hearts."
-- Derrick Brown

Now at the house in Seattle after a long leg of tour, gearing up to go at it again.

On my wall there is an artwork of a baboon on a stool looking sincere and tired and underneath him is the word SURVIVORS.

Today I did an image search on the word LIVERS, printed the best color photo, and hung it next to the baboon.

Warble rock jaw.
Chatter thick skull.
Numb Chuck (guy with the tear ducts).
A head still wavering, post-gong beat.
Turning my volume in on itself, and down.
I grew these last weeks. More than I would have imagined despite having talked too much. There were such sacred moments. Shared thunder. Shuttering shiverfish.
Watched'm ripple through the room and back. I'm addicted to it. To giving all the good stuff away but not keeping enough of it safe at home. More of what I say to people should take a round trip. Cranking the brightside catapult is an odd job for someone who hovers on holy, but is still so uncomfortable with Love. With the blessings come the curses. Thank goodness for both. Long stretches of tour manifest sleep deprivation, even when I've slept.

"For some people, happiness is just a reduction in suffering…
(shakes head) Terrible." -- Arnold Remond Liesting

Stick, Shift

A Stretch of Blankness

March 4, 2006

Still on the move on tour and will catch the journal up later, but wanted to throw this post up real quick. I've had a few folks write in who've bought copies of the old CD, "A Stretch Of Presence," but they were blank. I have no explanation, but hate that that happened to you and wanna replace it if yours turned up blank too. Just email me with an address.

The release party for the new CD will be in Seattle on April 18th. We have a title!

Soon, Hovercraft

Alaska

February 20, 2006

"If you cut Alaska in half, Texas would be the third largest state."

Jeff Stepp, the organizer and all-around super smoov human, from University of Alaska, Fairbanks wanted to show me some Alaskan culture firsthand. I'm down for culture. He and his wife, Carrie, scooped me up from the hotel that Thursday so we could attend a banquet celebrating the start of the Yukon Quest, a 1,000 mile dogsled race through Alaska and Canada. That's where the good stuff started to happen, and I'm not just talkin' about the banquet food I shoveled down my gap with a couple desserts, or three.

At the dinner I sat next to a guy named Dave who lives in a village of 30 people. Dave talked about bringing/breathing life into his village during a future summer solstice celebration where a great band or two might come out to play in exchange for the strange getaway experience. I told him that maybe summer solstice 2007 I'd find some crew to go out there and pull it off. Lemme know if you're down. I'm talkin' musicians/bands, not necessarily poets, even though I'll go along for the ride to step up.

While Dave and I drank "Moose Drool" and talked about living in isolation, the traditional Yukon Quest began its lottery-style draw for order. One at a time the 22 dog mushers, both men and women from surprisingly different ages and backgrounds, drew for their starting position. Each one did an in-the-moment interview, thanked their families and sponsors then stood awkwardly while all the guests auctioned and placed bets on that musher's chance of winning.

The musher who drew the 11th position was named Hugh Neff, sho nuff. Hugh did something that made me check myself. He got on the mic in front of the several hundred down home folk in attendance and said something almost exactly like, "I'm broke. My wife's birthday is in three hours. If y'all could buy her a beer and keep'er happy, I'd sure appreciate it." He was sincere and sweet and not too proud to beg. I wondered about what his wife thought.

Hugh's presence… it had something severely Bret Turner in it. Bret was one of my closest friends throughout junior high and high school. He'll never stop being a close friend. I've misplaced him somewhere in Texas at the moment. I hope he is living more than surviving. I miss him very much right now.

My banquet train was slowly rollin' into Saucedville. I got bold and started raising my hand in the auction after observing each presence, then threw some cash down on Yuka Honda. Yuka was one of the five mushers who were rescued from terrible weather conditions by the National Guard on the second day of the race. Three other racers "scratched" (took themselves out of it) that day.

On Friday morning I went in to do a Q & A at a university "Leadership Lunch". It was a fun[ny] first experience. The students were genuinely cool… except for… well, if you were in the room, you saw it… :

Before one last Q & A session on Friday, Jeff had to facilitate the Academic Bowl team's practice. No, not bowling. It was like the old Academic Decathlon on TV where college teams of factoid-loaded bookworms show up with their crew and go against other smart college crews.

The Fairbanks team was only three strong for practice, so Jeff pitted Cantrel (an office staffer/student) and me against them. Only one of the Academic Bowl kids knew who I was or why I was even in the room with them. The other two were distant and fairly unimpressed by my loud competitive presence or the victory handshake Cantrel and I had invented (with cheer). We used it every time we got an answer right, which I think only happened about four times in the over 100 questions.

Sage flew out Friday night and by Saturday morning we'd caught him up on the Yukon Quest (www.yukonquest.com), headed out to see the dogs, and got ready for the start of the race. Couple strange things goin' on there:

1. My fingertips and toes were numb, and my balls were lost inside my hips, yet the Alaskans were all walkin' around saying, "geez, it's so hot today."
2. It was about 37 degrees outside. The start of the Quest was ON a river where hundreds of excited people were jumping up and down. My thing is this, if it's over 32 degrees, can we all just agree to not jump up & down on the river, please?!

Sage and I walked around in the back lots where the 22 mushers prepared their gear and dogs. When the time was right the teams got set to jet and the dogs started howling like hell. They were fired the fug up.

22 competitors left in two minute intervals to head down to the start line. Like a line of dominoes rising backwards, all the dog teams perked up one after another and started barking like their heads would explode if they didn't run soon. It was incredible noise.

I dropped by to spy on my money bet, Yuka Honda, make sure she had dog treats for my little runners and that they were all ready to bring me home some dough… okay, I never spoke to her for fear of bruising her focus or getting beat up, but I was really sending the good stuff straight to'er.

Hugh's team was to leave directly after hers so they were parked in the next spot. Everybody had crew and entourage and help, but Sage noticed that Hugh did not. It was just him and his birthday girl from the banquet with 14 canine athletes ready to rip it.

Sage suggested we be Hugh's crew, so I got Hugh's attention and asked if he needed help. He did, and told me to hold the lead rope and keep the first two dogs straight while he hooked the others in. I became like a nervous child afraid to mess up.

Hugh's first lead dog was Colby who was an excited sweetheart. She would bark with excitement then tuck her head inside my legs to warm up a little, then bark, then jump up for belly scratches, then bark and tuck again. All the dogs were goin' nuts with anticipation, and nothing was still.

Then Hugh hooked up the second lead dog, Flame, who eventually got a little too close for comfort, taking nips and bites at Sage and me. I just stood there, committed to the task at hand, hoping for it to be over soon and holding a protective hand over… my boys.

Hugh's wife finally came to the rescue and led the dogs away so they could start the race. Sage and I jogged behind them down to the river where we saw some pretty surprising if not impressive hats and coats made from real animal pelts and heads and such. The guy with the lynx head used as a warm cap and neck protector was the most striking of these accessories, what with the lynx's teeth reaching down the forehead for his native owner's eyes. Traditions baffle me sometimes.

On a drive in 2002 Eitan Kadosh and I noticed that a LOT of people up & down the West Coast carve large bears out of wood. Alaskans apparently enjoy carving polar bears into ice. But not just bears. There were also some penguins. And, at the front of University of Alaska, Fairbanks is an ice sculpture of an Eskimo clubbing a baby seal. It was later clarified that the Eskimo was spearing the baby seal, not clubbing it. My bad.

Speaking of natives, the most disturbing thing I witnessed in Alaska was how much the drunken Indian stereotype proved itself on the streets of Fairbanks. It's such an obvious shit situation. I felt compelled to do something, but what?

I've been keeping an eye on the race at www.yukonquest.com. Hugh was recently given an ultimatum: mandatory rest for 18 hours, or scratch. He scratched, and is pissed. The race is down to 13 now.

The show at the University that night was incredible. The crowd showed up willing and ready and loud. A crew of kids had driven up 8 hours from Anchorage to catch the show because the one we would do the next night in Anchorage at Rumrunners was only for 21 & up. They weren't too bummed when it was announced we'd be doing a surprise free show for the underage crowd in Anchorage that coming Monday. I was just surprised anyone would drive that far to see anything. Man I love art-hungry people.

Anchorage also did us right. It never ceases to amaze me how many folks know the lyrics to every one of Sage's songs. Crowd was rockin' out despite the shoulder-to-shoulder packed house and smoky bar setting.

Heather, the organizer, and Mitch the Merch Guy took us snowboarding the next morning. It was my first time. Bunny slopes are depressing. My feet were stressed within minutes. I was sick of unhooking and hooking them back into the board only to get back to the top of a little hill that took three seconds to ride down.

Mitch the Merch Guy was way cool and hung with me while I learned. Finally, I got tired of getting passed by the same little kid and polite father so we took it to the top of an intimidating (for me) top.

I was so focused on what the hell I was gonna do when I got to the top that I forgot about the lift I had to ride in order to get there. I had to laugh the shock right out of me that came from being scooped up then taken that high into the air on a wobbly chair without a seat belt and a snowboard hangin' off me feet that I was scared would snag a lift pole and pull me down to my death. At least I woulda died laughing.

I finally got a little cocky, pulled from six years of skateboarding experience, and can hardly wait to go snowboarding again. I'll at least wait till my tailbone stops yelling at me. It hated being stuck between my teeth like that.

I flew back to Fairbanks after Anchorage to perform at three high schools, one of which was in North Pole. The students were awesome to me at all the schools, but I gotta spend special shouts to Maggie for our fairly unexpected and synchronistic emotional moment, and the huge learning I got from that. Thank you Nichole for warming up the mic at the university (and Karina in Anchorage!) and for having me over to Lathrop with those wide-eyed wonderers.

And a special huge hug to SWOFFER for making the whole return trip happen and being so excited about it! Momma Mia! I've never eaten so much lasagna in one sitting. It's so good when I'm on the road and I get to stay with a real live family unit at the dinner table in a warm home, watch the Olympics, And relax into myself. What a good time that moment.

I can't thank the folks in Alaska enough for the amazing time they showed us, and I'd be honored to come back anytime.

After another high vibration show at University of Washington, then last night with the super respectful crowd at Buena Vista University, I'm now getting ready for bed in Storm Lake, IA. It's colder here than it was in Alaska. Tomorrow I drive the rental back to Minneapolis and hop a plane to Florida where I expect my nuts to finally come out of hiding.

The CD is coming along SO nicely. I couldn't be more excited about it, and the production, and the amazing talent who lent their expertise to the thing. The title of it… well, I thought I had it, and I still think I do, but I'm still juggling a couple certainties. I'm so jaded by two years of title searching. It's between:

Now the Future Swung

Human the Death Dance

in them also the future swung

For the Wrest of Us

I'm kind of attached to each of them.

Florida, I ask you only for warm sun… and don't come to the room not ready.
As Far As You Can, Feel

P.S. I can't believe I almost forgot to send praise out to Erin Madsen of Storm Lake, IA who gifted me with the best live radio interview I've had the pleasure of doing (I can't stand live radio interviews), and expecially for the Bill Hicks biography he passed on to me.

I Won!!!!

February 08, 2006

Call it a 3-peat. Call it luck. Call it skills. But whatever you do call it another championship!!! Man, you shoulda seen me! I was on fiiiiiirrre! It feels so amazing to once again rock the world...

Okay, no.

I didn't even make it to finals.

But it was an incredible weekend and a powerful finals. Mike McGee from T.O.F.U. ripped it like a pro and walked away with the title after Juaquin got a time penalty and fell to second place. It was a big damn surprise of an ending. Andrea Gibson made me loose my eye water, Jared Paul made me stand up out of my seat, and Versiz cut loose like cuttin' loose is supposeed to get done. Also, 3 of the 4 finalists are in The Bullhorn Collective and I liked that.

Thank you for the emails. I'm good. We just kicked ass at The Seattle Slam tonight too. A little worn down by lack of sleep and lots of loose ends. I haven't had time to give the play-by-play here in the journal. I wasn't so hot about keeping you posted during the competition, but it just meant I was out having a great time with Charlotte, NC, and Rives and Iyeoka and Shappy and Krissi Reeves and... hi, my name is Name McDropper.

I'm happy that such an inspiration walked away with our weird Slam crown.

I'm on my way out to Alaska this morning for a week and hope to have some quality time spilling into my journal then.

Off To Sea, Wizard

It's On

February 02, 2006

The 2006 Individual World Poetry Slam starts tonight!

Among the poets in my first bout:

Christa Bell
Rives
Iyeoka Okoawo

Will do my best to keep you posted, short as the posts may be.

Toe, Up

in them also the future swung

January 24, 2006

Jamie DeWolf (formerly Jamie Kennedy) of The Suicide Kings was two seats away from me at San Quentin State Prison, smiling like a shark, looking for a bucket, or a saucer, or somethin' to catch my eyeballs with.

I get a little nervous before every performance. This one was no different, except that I was in prison.

We were being protected by a chubby guard boy with a mustache dressed in all green who I coulda knocked out with a pencil.

There wasn't a mic to keep me centered, or to manipulate my voice.

It was a Slam. They were gonna tell me what they thought of me immediately.

I knew I was gonna stick my landing, but there's always that possibility of sharting or burping up dinner in the middle of a performance. The thought stalks me endless. Embarrassing moments are not shy about giving themselves unto me.

Most of the nervousness was in my need to say something meaningful without preaching geek, without stutter-stepping the nonverbal vibration I know I'm capable of, to say the good stuff with grit, and awareness. I was so eager to remind them how high the volume can go, how much more we can release our beasts through vulnerability.

The better half of me was pretty comfortable with the fact that I was about to open up my nerve endings to an oversized classroom stuffed with a hundred-and-fifty prisoners who were spilling out into the hall and adjacent rooms. I just wish my eyes could've been a little less telling for the people sitting next to me, and that my blood would learn to tap sixteenth notes without so much racket.

Jamie was losing confidence in me. He couldn't tell if I was gonna buckle under the weight of these energies who bench press burden for a living, or if I was gonna set it off.

Jamie's Slammed in front of these guys a couple times before. Most of the prisoners already know his talent. They already know he shares their bite and their restlessness. They already know he was born on the backside of a switchblade needle, that he's been infected with those who came before him. They relate to Jamie. He's cut with venom, raw with glory. He's a teeth eater too. They know Jamie can hold his own when it comes to game face. They relate to him just fine. If you know Jamie, you know what I'm talkin' about. He reveals it in his first impressions.

I, on the other hand, hold these traits somewhere on the inside. I don't play that instrument so loudly. I sing those black & blues in the shower, or on long drives by myself. I map it out on the page for months where it usually heals itself then breathes. I get no credit for being immediately threatening. It is not in my person to harsh you first, not without apologizing if I do.

I was pretty surprised that only three performance poets from the Bay Area found the sack to toe up, come out and rip it. Granted, a few of the Bay Area poets weren't allowed because of warrants or records, but what an incredible opportunity lost for the others. I mean it's San Quentin.

I was even more surprised to find out that the four of us who did show up wouldn't be carrying the Slam on our shoulders. Two of the prisoners (Chu and Abdul) hosted, and about 10 of the prisoners actually Slammed alongside Jamie, Geoff Trenchard, Kiria (?; powerful female voice from Berkeley) and myself.

After a short open mic with about five prisoners, Geoff Trenchard had the unenviable first position in the Slam and had to warm'm up. Geoff's also been there before. He's also in The Suicide Kings. The prisoner's know they can trust Geoff too. He nailed it. The guy is an amazing writer/performer.

The room was surprisingly respectful. In fact, those men came proper with much respect, not afraid to shout-out when they were feelin' it. My kinda crowd. But still... Was I their kinda crowd? I knew I was, but they didn't.

Jamie stepped out of his comfort zone and read a new piece on page. They've seen his other works. It was phenomenal, as usual. Even on page that guy knows how to uproot a tree. He got a 29.5 out of 30 from the judges/prisoners.

Now, granted, we all know that a Slam's just a gimmick to involve the crowd in a spoken word show. In most situations we stopped caring about arbitrary scores a long time ago. But something about being in that prison... I gave a shit what they thought, even through their scores. Universality is incredibly important to me. What most folks consider the bottom of the barrel is a huge part of that universal reach. I needed to know we weren’t so far apart.

The prisoners weren't bad poets at all. There were a couple of them who locked my eyelids back by the way they used hope in their swing. Two of them got perfect 30's from their peers.

There were lots of poems about Tookie Williams, the former Crip-turned-children's-book-author who was recently executed amidst MUCH protest.

I was slated to perform fourth-to-last.

There was a prisoner who really wanted to read before some bell rung. He was indignant and frustrated like they were gonna run out of food before he ate, or the bus was gonna leave and not care to wait for him. So they put him ahead of me. I didn’t care. It’s not like I was gonna argue.

The bell rang and a fourth of the room cleared out. I was a little deflated. I wanted all their ears. In the frenetic moment of prisoners heading back to their cells the inexperienced hosts skipped my name and moved on. The organizer reminded the hosts to throw me in the mix. Then there was small confusion because the only two people left to perofrm were both named Buddy. Finally, with an exhausted breath the host just said, "Alright, Wakefield's up" to choppy applause.

I dangled in front of them like cartoon steak for cartoon dogs, eyes ripe and ready.

I could feel their urge to nudge each other and laugh at my easy targets, my weakness for smiling.

In an instant I found the first words of Guitar Repair Woman and spoke from the gut:

"My mother told me ‘if you ever become a rock star
DO NOT smash the guitar.
There are too many poor kids out there
who have nothin'
and they see that shit
when all they wanna do is play that thing.
Boy, you better let'm play.’"

They liked that, and everything about the room said “RIP IT.”

So I did.

Their eyes got bigger than mine. They had no idea I was gonna swing like that. Man, it felt good. Really good.

29.9

There was a second round I didn't know was comin’.
They took the Top 5 of us.
It was three prisoners, Jamie and I.

It was a beautiful moment to walk back to the front of the room with the prisoners yellin' "Bud! Buddy!" Boy that felt good. So much mutual respect for the intention.

I did The Information Man.

In the part where I say how the info guy is "juggling predictable conversation with folks who look like iceberg lettuce and who believe that the flat lines of small talk will give us life" I pointed to the guard involuntarily. Thank goodness for synchronicity 'cause that mufugger looked just like a big ol’ ball of no-nutrient lettuce and everybody there felt it even more when the next line let loose: "I want them to leave." They all giggled.

There were two truly releasing moments the prisoners got and embraced:

"If you've never been rocked back by the presence of purpose
this poem is too soon for you.
Return to your mediocrity
plug it into an amplifier
and rrrre-think yerself!"

and

"Even at your worst, you are fucking incredible."

Van Morrison would've been proud.
There was so much energy in the room.
There was such movement.
I want you to know the movement.

To see tears of solid hope in a caged man's eyes... Thank goodness.

30.0

I wasn't the only one. There was delivery after delivery from prisoners and Jamie that rocked the place; damn near took the roof off. The guard couldn't keep from smiling every so often.

After the show we got to shake hands with the inmates and talk heartfelt, without fear, for just a moment.

The prisoners were rushed out of the room, and were gone.

We were also rushed off a minute later.

I was the first to sign out.
Without thinking or questioning or looking I left the room and walked out into "the yard" by myself.

I looked up. No guards, just LOTS of prisoners stone cold. Some of them have had nothing to do but workout for many years. They were not in conversation. They were not cheering for the Slam any longer. They had returned to their game faces, leaning, arms crossed, staring, sizing me up. All eyes were directly on me.

I imagined they were asking themselves how the little poet would react to an immediate realization that he was walking directly into a hundred prisoners alone. I imagined they thought I would turn around and go back inside. I wanted to. It was too late. I couldn't turn my back on'm like they were animals now that the show was over, once I did my tiny little job for a few minutes where I pretended I was some sort of lasting light.

I did not stop walking toward them, and they did not give any welcoming gestures or smiles, so I said in my coolest funny man, "the fuck? I don't want any trouble."

It was like watching the icicles on one entire side of a house drop at the same time. They completely broke game face and laughed again. I strolled up next to them, suddenly so welcoming and interested. I did not wish to be center of attention whatsoever in this situation, so I focused all my conversation on one man who shook my hand with spark in his eyes. I spoke in a tone that did not invite everyone to listen. There were handshake interruptions and they made my night. It felt good. I felt myself tearing up, then immediately steamrolled the idea of becoming emotional.

Man, I wanted to listen all night. Now I ain't sayin' I could make it on the inside of that place by any stretch. Not at all. That’s not something I need to prove to myself. I'm just sayin' I wanted to spend the night and hang out with the fellas, hear their stories, redirect their excuses, remind them what they're good at, hold a mirror on reality and run circles around the dumb shit the mean people in their life have offered them.

Yeah, I know, like that’s gonna happen.

Eventually the others were all signed out and the last bell rang, and the animals walked slowly back to their cages in one big scattered pack.

Jamie and Geoff were eye to eye with me, smiling. Incredible. I said I wanted a beer, but not too loud. They probably miss having a beer with a friend.

Lights Out, Dufrane

San Quentin (Take 1)

January 13, 2006

Tonight's show at San Quentin was postponed until next week. The tense situation and inability to get a proper prisoner head count forced the organizer to reschedule for next Friday. Luckily, I'll still be nearby in Oakland.

Side Note: No way am I done telling you about Vipassana. Long live Michael A!

Thanks for the article, Joe.
(SF Chronicle)
San Quentin Prison riot injures 23 inmates, 2 officers
Suzanne Herel, Chronicle Staff Writer

(01-13) 12:37 PST SAN QUENTIN -- Twenty-three inmates and two correctional
officers were injured in a riot that broke out in a San Quentin State
Prison dining hall Thursday night.
The violence began about 7 p.m., after about 260 inmates had taken their
seats in a prison cafeteria, when a group of Latino inmates began
assaulting other inmates, prison spokesman Sgt. Eric Messick said.
Correctional officers quelled the uprising using pepper spray and batons,
Messick said. One officer suffered a sprained knee and another was struck
in the head and chest.
One inmates was treated at an outside hospital for a fractured jaw and
returned to prison at 3 a.m. today; another was stabbed; six inmates
suffered wounds made by a slashing weapon; and 15 others had cuts and
bruises, Messick said. None of the injuries was life-threatening.
Initially, prison officials suspected that the attacking inmates had
targeted black prisoners, Messick said, but that theory was dropped when
officials realized that prisoners of all races had been injured.
Prisoners in the so-called Badger unit -- which houses new inmates --
remained on lockdown this afternoon, a condition that is likely to
continue through the scheduled execution of Clarence Ray Allen at 12:01
a.m. Tuesday, Messick said.
The rest of the prison was operating normally, he said.
The prisoners in the dining room at the time of the fight consisted of new
arrivals from county jail and parole violators, Messick said. Those
serving long prison terms are kept in a separate section of the prison.
Fourteen prisoners were sent to isolation, and more may be headed to "the
hole," as it's called, depending on what the investigation turns up,
Messick said.
Prison officials recovered nine weapons used to stab and slash that
inmates had fashioned out of toothbrushes and pens.

ART PATCH!!!

January 07, 2006

MANY thanks and MUCH appreciation to ART PATCH for believing in me enough to award a grant in support of the upcoming CD.

Art Patch Mission:
Believing that art, in all its forms, is an essential community resource, Patch Project is dedicated to highlighting the lack of arts funding in Seattle, alerting the public to the arts community’s increasing dependence on tobacco money, and encouraging and creating alternative and sustainable funding for the arts.

I feel very fortunate indeed.

Waterhead, Smiley