Moon Over Tent City

Mandatory Meeting

The Wednesday meeting happened at TC3 at 6:30pm as usual. It was not raining or terribly cold and so we were somewhat comfortably gathered around, on foot and in camp chairs. Thankfully, the smokers were not all bottled-necked at the entrance as they were last week. Ah, but the meeting went on for a very long time as there were many voices of dissent and discussion about most issues and people needing to be heard. Roger has been doing an excellent job of leading the meetings and so we were not waiting on process, but rather on the voice of the people. Once, it was put to the vote whether or not we should end the meeting and the majority voted to extend it. And so on it went. I was nominated to be EC (executive committee), but declined the position. I don't have 30 hours a week the position requires right now, but I'd like to try the position sometime before I leave camp. Perhaps there will be another chance? It's a fascinating experience, these camp meetings. It's the closest thing I've ever seen to a true democracy, with many voices talking and many wills clashing and few things being agreed upon and popularity winning the vote this week and order winning the vote next week. Constant flux. A true reflection of the people in the state.


Tent City 3 Tour
A friend visited after the meeting, came to see the camp, spend some time in it. Knowing he'd be outside, standing around, talking, he wore long johns. He even toyed with the idea of spending the night, but was he really ready to sleep on milk crates in a community tent? Well, maybe he'll come back in a few weeks, with an inflatable mattress, maybe. It didn't take more than a few steps to get engaged in conversation, first with one person then another. We had six long conversations in two hours. "I'll give you the scoop," said the first. And he did, he gave us the scoop, on how to survive Tent City. It's an art form. Everyone's got a trick or a piece of advice. "You need to stay warm." "Keep your head down." "Eat fruit." "Don't talk at the meetings." "Steer clear of the drama."

Artist Collaboration #4
On Thursday, Darren, the TC3 kitchen coordinator, met with graphic designer/installation artist, Sam Trout, for the fourth artist conversation. We met at Tent City, took a quick tour of the camp, then drove to the bagel shop. I led the way and Sam followed with Darren in his car. Once we were settled with coffee, the conversation began. It started with the simple stuff about who they were then fell on their mutual interest in drawing. From there it went to musical tastes then delved into personal histories. It went further and further until they arrived at the frozen moment, that picture of life beyond which Darren wasn't able to move. Vehicle--coma--accident--she never came back--everything ripped away from me. And there they were, two artists sitting at a table, offering one another advice on how to move beyond life's obstacles, sharing stories of pain and healing. "I ran away.""I learned to meditate." I don't know if they will produce anything or agree to a goal, but I know it was worth the time of their pairing and meeting to get here. "Here's my story. Tell me your story." Sometimes that is enough.

Recording
Later in the day, I connected with Chris Wilson about the recording. We decided to work in my little studio in Fremont which will keep things convenient. Chris says although his equipment is semi-portable, it can't be used for field recordings. If I want to record anything at TC3, the wind or rain on the tarps, I'll have to rent equipment. We talked about the scope of the recording project. Chris was helpful in determining what would best be captured on video and what could be produced as audio. He spends most of his time recording classical music. I'm thankful Josie connected us and hopeful the artists will have something for him on Thursday.

Prayer Wheel
Still later, I met with Stu about the prayer wheels. We sat around discussing nothing for a long time then went to look at the 30-pound, handmade, Tibetan prayer wheel in front of Planet Earth Yoga in Fremont. Stu says he has access to the press at Pratt and that he can press the "song" into a copper plate and bend that into a prayer wheel. Sounds good. Let's do it!

Artist Collaborations

Ann & Giant
Ann Sloper, producer of Ice Queens, the crowd-pleasingly gorgeous paper dresses at the Fremont Summer Solstice Parade 2009 and 2010, met up with "Giant" (aka Matthew Barrett), a serious and prolific poet suffering from genetic and other forms of cancer. Giant writes about being homeless and exposes our commonalities. Giant talked of his work and health and of the stresses of this time of year. Ann asked about the possibilities of working with the camp to do something collaborative for next year's parade. Giant doesn't look farther out than than February. The doctor's are uncertain if he will be around next summer. Ann called her friend Toby, to see if he was around and if he might do some healing work for Giant. Toby responded immediately that he would and they set up an appointment for the morning. Quick work!

Ann Sloper and Toby Christensen and Giant and I met at Lighthouse Coffee in Fremont. I steered us to my friend's house and got some blankets out, then Dan gave Giant some instructions. "Lie down, relax, stay open to the rhythms. I am going to do some healing drumming over you. It sounds like reiki on steroids. It will last about an hour. I will be facing away from you. If you need to get my attention, you can tap my leg."

And then Toby, The Healing Drummer, stood over Giant, straddled him with a djembe between his legs, and began to play fast and sharp. Toby is an innovator in the field of healing music. The rhythms were forceful.

I sat in the same room, in a rocking chair, listening and trying to keep my own pathways open. I saw a village. I was one of the villagers. I was an African woman. Everything was possible in the music, through the music, with the music. The rhythms vibrated around me and, I supposed, through me. There was nothing violent happening, but the beats were correcting and killing what needed to be killed and feeding what needed to be fed and there was life and death all around and arguments and resolution.

"Breathe deeply," he said when he was done. "Sit up when you're ready. Drink plenty of water. Your chakras are now aligned. You may feel a lightness in your upper body and a heaviness in your legs. This is normal and will pass as the negative energy is released through your feet."

Projections

Tethered

I was there for church line-up, then for the church sign-up, then for dinner, then I was cold and needed to retreat. I wasn't layered up. I had cowboy boots on, which have pretty consistently, when the temps are below 50, made my feet cold. Why don't I give them up? They are my Tent City boots. I still have my copy of Watermelon Sugar in my right boot. It falls out every time I take my boot off and I stick it back in there. I read it some nights in my sleeping bag in a sleeping bag in a bivy on milk crates. Off to somewhere I go then, to write, to prepare, to do something, what? No destination. I'm headed to Greenwood. The turns I make take me there. Perhaps I am going to Kate's. I park and go into Makeda and work on a few things. I close them down. I stop by Kate's. She is in her den, watching a movie, the doors are locked, no doggie topsides. I consider the hot tub. There is it and here I am, cold. I could knock on the basement window and say ,"Let me in, let me in!" I retreat. I get in my car. While the engine warms, I add a layer, long johns and a fleece jacket, and drive across town. I feel like an outsider. I want to be alone with the others who are alone. But then I hear a faint music, voices singing, a choir. I'm carrying an extra sleeping bag in with me and my art supplies and my hip sack. I am wearing my crazy 10 sweater poet's cloak. I am laden, so to speak. But I walk towards the music anyway and away from camp. I am the only one wandering about. This is suburbia. Every so often a car passes. Unlike the days before, I do not feel as if I own the street or the town or the world. I feel as if I am trespassing and will need, at any moment, to provide my papers and explain who I am and where I'm going. Why? I'm tethered to Tent City. I represent it. I could cause them harm. It is already a scar, a mar, an imposition on the neighborhood. Or so some feel. Or so we are told. Or made to understand. It runs through my head that I am a threat. Am I a threat? I do have bundles. I am going to a homeless camp tonight. Are they wondering how I see them? Are they wondering if I am scanning their homes, their yards, their landscapes for some space? Are they are wondering where I will end up tonight? Will I tread on their world? Will they have to conceive of a way to fix me or remove me? Am I looking to nest? I hold up my head. I make eye contact. I look annoyed when they get in my way. Come on, come on, I've got places to go! I maintain a confident, optimistic facade. I talk to dogs. I fondle my cell phone. I make prudent decisions when crossing the street. These things keep me from looking homeless. Hah, they include me in the known world, the neighborhood of the understood. By time I return to camp, hours later, I am warm, my feet are warm and, though I am still trespassing, it is more the way a raccoon trespasses. There is a certain transfer of ownership after a certain hour in suburban America, when suburbia itself shrinks and goes inward and the possums and raccoons and take over.

solder soulder solidare to make solid

this is the front line we're wide awake in here there is a rustling in the wings a shifting overhead let them buy you dinner let them give you scarves you're serving a purpose someone somewhere is arranging your life someone somewhere is in your things talking to someone about you about what they can take from you everyone is asleep we are untying knots we're in plastic bag we're suspicious but we know how to forgive and we're willing to share what we have what do you need what do you want how can you be more than you are more than one person a toy a man a dog all at once a long man in a long blanket like a cigarette stands with a fold of fabric over his head it's quiet hours the lights are out we're sharing advice now at a lower level divulging normalizing excusing venting aligning exposing you're nothing but a wheel on gravel now we own you we own the moon we've seen it all

Hopping the Fence

Collaborating Artists

I am putting together 5-6 multi-disciplinary artist teams for possible collaboration--pairing TC3 resident artists with professional working artists in Seattle to begin a dialog. Artist teams agree to meet for a one hour conversation sometime in the next two weeks. The actual collaborations may or may not happen, that's up to the artists, but all artists will meet and work towards collaborative ideas. This is about real time connections. It's about art as a battering ram. It's about hopping a 10' fence with a paintbrush and a poem. Teams will, in late December, go into a recording studio. We're pleased and honored to be invited into Chris Wilson's studio in Fremont to present our work. Ah! Then we'll have proof of what's possible when the fence comes down. The tricky part is getting the artists together. Some residents have phones, some don't. Some I see everyday. Some it's by chance. When I do see an artist these days, I pull my calendar out and get an artist friend on the phone and set a date.

Lyn and Mark were the first two artists to meet. Brave pilots. I facilitated their meeting on Friday and, wow, I couldn't have asked for a better match or a more exciting start! It began with Lyn reciting a section of the Battle of Maldon in Old English and Mark pulling out a copy of that very poem from his knapsack, in The Cambridge Old English Reader, which he's currently working on recording. From there, they moved on to Beowulf and then Lyn's finger settled on a line, "homeless they wander." That started a litany of "you know what I'm thinking" and "it would be fun to." Lyn and Mark worked easily together and decided to follow their collaboration through. They're working on an original script via email and will meet again next week before the studio recording. Bravo team! Bravo!!

I'd met with Mark the night before. We read out a section of Aristophanes' Thesmophoriazusae, a comedy Mark plans to present at the American Philological Association. Mark is a Classics scholar, a Greek translator, an actor and an all around brilliant man. He carries a full pack of tomes about with him and seems to have whatever he needs just when he needs it. The rain is ruining them, he says. He is studying for his Japanese equivalency, applying to graduate programs and has many project going.

4AM in Meadowbrook
Alas. I showed up for the camp-wide meeting. It was cancelled. I didn't eat enough. I waited around. There was laughter. I sat in the middle of it. I pulled out my typewriter and became the song. I gave my lantern hundreds of cranks. It faded, so... the hot sucker fish came swimming along and latched onto my face. Feverish, stuffy head. Like Jiminy, I rubbed my feet together in my sleeping bag. I have cold feet. I am unable, simply unable, to sleep with cold feet. I'm dressed well enough, I think. Two pairs of long johns, gloves, a scarf, a hat and a down jacket. I'm dressed for bed. O but sick, sick, sick, I am, and cold. Cold, cold, cold in my sleeping bag, seeping bag. Out goes the heat. How many hours in a warm place will it take this time? I gave it up at 4:30am. I got out of my bag, walked down to the kitchen tent and found the morning coffee brewing. I needed tea! I walked away. I drove to my office. After a 30-minute shower, my feet were still cold. I curled around my heater under a wool blanket. Cold! A few hours later, finally, I got warm. But that hot sick fish on my face persists.