Pick a card, Any card

Midnight
moonlight
howling in the waves
footprints
card tricks
no one left to save

The fool sets one step a time a journey
sets a journey a time one step

The fool sets a time

Meeting moon
devil’s croon
but his chains are too loose
lovers’ dare
strength is here
foot hanging from a noose

Spin the wheel of fortune
see what you might find
sun and stars or hermit
all is found behind

High priestess lays with hierophant
sleeping side by side
but emperor and empress
are not content to hide
with justice in their chariot
they ride and ride and ride

Will you seek magician’s truth
strike the tower at its base?

Can you find the world inside
of death’s solemn embrace?

Temperance tips the scales and then
your judgement, your new face

Will you walk the way,
will you walk the way?

A Comic Book Poet

As much as I wanted to write a beautiful poem in honor of National Poetry Month, poetry is just not my craft: I’ve never worked on it, never gotten feedback on what I do haphazardly throw together, and usually I prefer to use anything that I write in poetic form as inspiration or building blocks for a song or essay. So although I pretty quickly decided to write an homage to a poet instead of a poem this week, I didn’t expect one poet to come to mind so immediately, clearly and irrefutably as an artist I want to honor: Charles Bukowski.

It might be because I’m back in food service, working at the North Quad dining hall. North Quad isn’t too bad; I can say with confidence that I’ve worked worse jobs. But there’s something about banging your head on the oversized milk prep tubs, about showering off that thin layer of grease after working grill, about reaching your arm into the garbage disposal up to the elbow and pulling out a consolidated wad of raisins, egg, yogurt, sausage and napkin, that is so goddamn far from poetry. There’s something about the burns on your forearms, the lingering smells of bleach and sour milk, the small, infected cut on your palm, that feel at once too dull and too intimate to abstract from. How do you transpire from sore feet? From hairnets? I don’t mind food service – sometimes I even like it – but there’s a certain embarrassing something about human nature that comes out when people are getting fed. The day drags on, the polite customers start to irk you, the rude ones suddenly deserve to die, and suddenly you feel weighed down by the sheer amount of grease, trash and dirty pans that go into feeding the masses. So how do you come home stinking like chicken grease and escape a mindset that accidentally, subconsciously derides the idea that your human experiences are worth making art out of?

Well, that’s when Charles Bukowski comes to mind.

My middle-school friend Montana Welton had made a startling jump from a propensity towards pulpy, serialized vampire novels in sixth grade to a suddenly refined preference for Kerouac, Salinger and Punk Rock anthologies in seventh grade, and she first lent me ‘Ham On Rye,’ by Bukowski around that time. The grim autobiographical narrative covered Bukowski’s childhood during the great depression, describing a childhood and young adulthood plagued by abuse, poverty, chronic acne, and isolation. I was intrigued and drawn in to Chuck’s gritty, proletarian world, and when I went looking for more novels I discovered that Bukowski had written volumes upon volumes of poetry.

The poems are forceful, declarative sentences separated by line breaks, elaborating on basic themes of Bukowski’s life: drinking, horseraces, women/whores, menial labor, and cheap hotels. Through the narrative of Bukowski’s body of poetry, we seem the poet as a laboring, legendary tough guy, a kind of superhero of everything voracious and brutal and secondrate. Bukowski’s “lowlife odyssey” has been described as a kind of comic-book world, the production of a poet who comes to the brink of self-reflection but can’t quite give up the need to be the hero of his own narrative – a pride that ultimately condemns him to be a ‘conventional writer.’ And it’s true that Chuck’s fierce pride and bravado might ultimately limit his capacity to self-reflect.

Yet presence of this ludicrous, whore-mongering, horse-betting, hyper-masculine character has stuck around in my life and my thoughts, because he gave me the tools to understand how poetry – how art – could be pulled out of the least lofty of human experiences. Would Bukowski shy away from writing about the grime of the dish machine, the spilled antidepressants, the shiny scars left by a mysterious rash, the cruel or stupid lover? Though Bukowski’s poems may caricature the poet as a colorful character, an uncomplicated, comic-book serialization, they resound with me because they took pride in the insanity of life. Where poets often seem to be trying ruefully acknowledge life’s gritty mess in an attempt to transcend it, Chuck just rolled around in it. And that’s what I love about him, because that’s all that we mortals can really do.

Looking for Illustrators!

Like to draw? Have a few spare hours? Like children’s literature? I spent a while procrastinating and writing this little story, inspired by Ann Arbor’s trend of sunny mornings and cloudy afternoons. I’m leaving some blank lines to signify each new page, and each space for illustrations! Here’s to young activists and story-telling.

———–

Bring Back The Sun

 

Jeremiah was a boy who loved the sun.

 

When the sky was blue and slow-moving, and the clouds were small and thick, and the sun was strong, Jeremiah was happy.

 

He liked to dance on both feet in the sunshine, his tight braids bouncing on the top of his head.

 

Jeremiah lived in a city called Bloomville, and one of his favorite things to do on a Saturday morning was to run down the blocks, streaming past the maroon row houses and cobblestone sidewalks.

 

Jeremiah pretended that all the buildings were too hot in the sun, and so he ran past them with his arms outstretched, sending waves of cool air onto their blistering surfaces.

 

Whooooooooooooosh.

He sailed down the streets of black tar, cooling off rows and rows of houses.

 

In his mind, Jeremiah wore a cape, and the houses all thanked him for cooling them off.

 

But Jeremiah had a big problem. The mayor of Bloomville, who everyone liked very much, used to own a big car company. So she cancelled all the busses and painted over the bike lanes, and told everyone in Bloomville to buy a car.

 

And all the people of Bloomville listened to their mayor, because they liked her very much. So every morning, the people of Bloomville got up, ate their breakfast, brushed their teeth and gathered their things. Then, they got into their cars to start the day.

 

Citizens of Bloomville drove everywhere they went.

To school.                                      To volunteer.

To work.                                         To the bank.

To the library.                               To the park.

 

Jeremiah hated driving, because he preferred to run down the streets, his sneakers pounding the ground in freedom. But he had another reason for being mad at the cars.

 

Every morning started off sunny in Bloomville.

And Jeremiah was happy.

 

But then everyone started driving their cars. And their cars all let off big puffs of poisonous clouds.

 

By the time lunch rolled around everyday, Bloomfield was covered in a massive, never-ending gray cloud.

 

Every day was the same. Bright and sunny in the morning. Dark and cloudy in the afternoon.

 

Jeremiah hated it. He wished the sun would shine all day long, so he could play and dance and laugh with his friends in the afternoon, too.

 

One day he asked his mom, “What happens to the sun after lunch? How does it get back to the same spot every morning?”

His mom sighed. “You’ve never seen a sunset, Jeremiah.”

 

Jeremiah was confused. He couldn’t see why everyone had to drive around in their cars. “Why can’t we share?” he thought. “Why can’t we walk? Don’t people miss the sun?”

 

Then, Jeremiah had an idea. He ran to the Mayor’s office, which was on the main green of Bloomville. He ran up the big set of stairs and knocked on the door of the City Hall. To Jeremiah’s surprise, the Mayor opened up. “Hello there, young Jeremiah.” said Mayor Park. “What can I do for you?”

 

Jeremiah threw up his hands. “Mrs. Mayor, I’m tired of these clouds.” he said. “Everybody’s cars put toxins in the air and cover up the sun! It never shines past lunch!”

Mayor Park smiled down at him, but shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah. The people of Bloomville like driving cars, it’s good for them. Unless you can show me otherwise, that’s the way it’s going to be. You’ll get your sun in the morning.”

 

Jeremiah was not satisfied. In fact, he was downright angry. He didn’t think that one person should decide when the sun could shine. So he zoomed down the steps and ran to the playground and gathered his friends together. When he explained his idea, they all agreed to help.

 

Some went to the hardware store.

Some went to the library to use the printers.

Everyone else, including Jeremiah, went home to put on their  sneakers.

 

An hour later, they all met back at the playground. All of the runners took a stack of flyers and a bag of wooden keys. When they were finally ready, they devised a plan, and split up the city’s streets. Then they were off! They ran down the sidewalks, pausing at each house to distribute a poster and a fake key.

 

All afternoon they sped through the neighborhood. Jeremiah was fastest of all. Every time he rang a doorbell he convinced someone else to help bring back the sun. He was so busy he almost forgot to be sad about the gray clouds.

 

At 6pm, everyone went in front of the City Hall. They were exhausted, but proud of all their hard work. Jeremiah put a huge bin on the top of the steps. “Now we wait,” he said. Soon, Mayor Park walked out of the door with her things, ready to go home for the day. “What’s all this?” she asked the crowd. “Will you wait a few minutes with us and find out?” Jeremiah asked.

 

Just then, Mrs. Glen from down the road showed up. “I’d like to state my support for the ‘Bring Back the Sun'” campaign. I agree to drive less if the city provides busses.” And she dropped her wooden key in the bin, to symbolize how she would give up driving.

Mr. Howard appeared and came up next. “I’d be happy to ride my bike around if there was space on the streets for me.” He said, dropping his wooden key in the bin.

Steadily, citizens of Bloomville came to the city hall to drop off their keys. Mayor Park sat with Jeremiah and his friends, stunned by what she was seeing. “It appears I was wrong, Jeremiah. It looks like the people of Bloomville actually want to drive less.”

 

Over the next couple of weeks Mayor Park made a lot of changes in the city. She started five bus routes that catered to most of the people in Bloomville. She had bike lanes painted on all of the main streets. And she had her old company sell hybrid vehicles and bicycles. With fewer cars on the roads, Bloomville stopped getting cloudy in the afternoon. Week by week, the sunshine lasted further into the day.

 

One night, Jeremiah’s mom invited everyone who worked on the campaign over to their house for cake and ice cream. They all waited on the front porch. “Tonight is a very special night,” She said. “You are all about to see your very first sunset in Bloomville. And it’s all because of your hard work, reminding people to care for the environment.”

 

Jeremiah sat on the top step, surrounded by his friends and parents and neighbors. He gazed outwards at the fiery ball of light sinking lower and lower into the horizon, sending waves of pink and orange light back across the sky. For the first time he could ever remember, he had been happy for an entire day.

From Childhood Dreams to Realities

Best Styled Line – Spring 2014 Collection Designer: Lindsey Fox

When my best friend since the first grade told me that she was pursuing our childhood aspiration of becoming a fashion designer, I was overwhelmed with utter joy at the fact that she never let go of her dream no matter how far fetched it seemed to our 13 year old selves. Well, say goodbye to far fetched because the things I saw at the WMU MODA (Merchandising Opportunities Design Association) 2014 Spring Fashion Show last weekend absolutely blew me away. First of all, let’s start with the venue. Downtown Kalamazoo’s Radisson is no casual location and the sheer organization put into the making of this show exuded professionalism. As I walked into The Kalamazoo Room, I felt like I was entering the real deal. A long shimmering runway extended down the length of the room with rows of chairs lining each side, people dressed to the nines swarmed in and took their seats, cameras stood at the end of the runway waiting to document the evening. The moment the music started pumping, I was transported into some mystical high fashion land, looking at pieces I could not believe were created by college students. MODA made a really fantastic choice to use women of all body types and skin colors (not to mention the wide array of tattoos) for models, which reinforced the sense of attainability that accompanied the over all glamor of the night. Something about seeing such a variety of beautiful and talented young women and men put together something of this magnitude upheld the idea that you really can do anything you put your mind to. As this all began to sink in, I felt complete confidence that this was what my best friend was meant to do and she would never let anything stand in her way of doing it. Watching the success of the night unfold was like hitting a refresh button inside of me that washed away all of the doubts and fears that accumulate when I think about my future. In the magic of that night, the ever cliched “anything is possible if you just believe” no longer sounded so unlikely.

Designer: Ali Manno; Photographer: Gabriela Palacio
Designer: Sugel Gamal; Photographer: Ashley Marie

When Actors Can’t Even Save The Play They’re In

(Content Warning: brief discussion of trans*phobia, Nazism, sexual violence.)

I’m a huge fan of thee-aye-tah (theatre). I like venues, I like stages, I like audiences, I like lights, I like music, I like actors. Sometimes, however, a production cannot save a play from just tanking.

I’m also all for weird-ass-shit. I like performance art. I like Finnegans Wake. I’m queer and pretend to be hip. I can stare at upside down urinals for hours. All of these together morph my aesthetic tastes, which, at times, can be questioned (but I’ll never admit it).

Last weekend, I attended the second night of “Marisol” that was put on my the School of Music, Theatre, and Dance. I was SO EXCITED. Not only did I have a friend in the show (who performed AMAZINGLY) but I also haven’t been to a SMTD production in a while (I usually go to student group performances). I was anticipating the flawlessness of the performance, which is exactly what I got. The acting was amazing. There was so much passion present. I could feel their emotions emanating off of them and hitting me in the face. The energy never faltered and I was emotionally fatigued at intermission, at the end, and for days to come. The acting, for me, sold the entire performance and I think that I’m going to miss the amount of talent that is present on this campus when I move away.

The actual written play was horrendous. While I think Rivera’s post-apocalyptic landscape was admirable insofar as he tried building and executing many different themes, tropes, and imagery, and pull it off as cohesive, it just didn’t work. When I attend a play I can accept the fantastical, I can accept the absurd, I can even (sometimes) accept problematic bullshit. But all together and at once was traumatizing.

Why is the moon orbiting around Saturn? This never was explained fully besides God’s senileness. God “being old” (whatever this means) doesn’t destroy physics. And if age could destroy the world, why were all other laws of physics seemingly still in place? HOW COULD HUMANS FIGHT A COSMIC ANGELIC WAR BY THROWING STONES AT THE SKY? These questions remain unanswered.

Why do plays have to perpetuate gender norms and stereotypes and use pregnant men as jokes? Not only is this bordering on trans*phobic, but it isn’t ever explained. God is so out of it that everyone just gets a womb? But why? For why?

Why are there Nazi’s? Sure, there could be neo-Nazi’s but there’s a really important difference. Also (neo)Nazi’s don’t hate everyone (even though they do hate most people), and to have them as these mass serial killers made little sense? Why use a historically loaded term when you could just make something new up?

Why was a man burned by the nazi’s trying to jack off to the moon, which he was trying to pull back into orbit via a giant magnet from his wheelchair?  This scene, while, yes, the most poetic, was the biggest *facepalm* moment of my life.

Why does sexual violence have to be used as a plot device? And for a shitty plot? I’m tired of sexual violence being used in ways that either perpetuate rape culture, or used in ways to develop plot (and not characters), or used in ways that are just bad. Everything is the worst.

People have told me that my critique isn’t valid. The play is just “edgy.” But, to me, the term “edgy” doesn’t mean that you can have an incoherent plot with problematic details, angsty angels, dying god, New York City, and a fog machine that smells a little like tobacco and weed (that doesn’t give highs just headaches). Ugh.

The acting almost saved the play. And then the whole thing ended with a message of hope after a lengthy narrativizing soliloquy. AKA the students of SMTD shine even in the midst of the apocalypse. AKA (passibly) queer women of color ended the play hand in hand and that was enough for me to clap. And, perhaps, that is the point.

Art is a Lie

As I sang the Silver Aria in yesterday’s studio class my voice teacher had me make direct eye contact with my peers hoping to make the acting in the song more realistic and relatable to the audience. As I sang she would shout out names and for the following phrase I would plead and flirt with the person of her choice. Then, instead of a name, she told me to look at the man who I was in love with and sing to him. On instinct I quickly envisioned his face and build as if he was standing a mere 15’ feet from me in the corner of the room and sang to him. For the first few instants I was Baby Doe singing to Horace Tabor, but then Alexandria recognized the face and build of the man which had materialized. No longer was the man Horace Tabor, rather, the phantasmal version of an old flame with whom I had ended things with what feels like a lifetime ago.

Startled, I tried to change the visage of the man in the corner to someone – anyone – else. Yet, the music reinforced his appearance and I was thankful when I heard “Melissa” shouted allowing my gaze to leave the corner and sing to my friend sitting in a desk right in front of me.

In that instant where the music conjured his image I was taken back to the moment where I became a cliché and fell for him. Yet, as I returned to my seat and the experience replayed in my mind reality burst in, flooding my thoughts with the reasons that things were over reminding my heart that there were no more feelings there for him.

So why him? Why not some other face from some other body or someone else from my past?

Art is nostalgic – hiding old relationships marred with impossibilities behind memories of perfection. Art is epic – heightening the butterflies of a high school crush to a love of Romeo and Juliet proportions. Art is retrospect – created in the past and given new life in the present, it requires the reexamination of its present and our past. Art is counterfeit – masquerading as truth while purging itself of inconvenient details which reality forces upon us.

When I sing the Silver Aria this weekend in the opera auditions, it is likely I will see his face again. When I go from singing to the banker, to the politician and finally to the man that Baby Doe is most in love with his figure will match the man I saw in the corner during studio class. So does this mean anything? Does it mean my life should follow the plot of a romantic comedy as I drop everything and run to him, ending up in front of his door waiting in the pouring rain to tell him that I was wrong and miss him, want him and need him in my life? Not by a long shot. Why? Art isn’t real. As Picasso said “Art is a lie that tells the truth”. Here the lie is his manifestation while the truth is that love which fulfills every nauseating cliché is surprisingly real.