the difference between outside and inside is a matter of perspective.
windows are not screened, doors are thrown wide and wanton like legs tired of constantly being crossed.
the wind sings through clothes, bringing katy dids and cicadas buzzing against walls while millions of spiders make their plans, watching warily from corners of impossibly high ceilings.
auckland is a sly grin of a city. the folks here are cool, like real cool, like real real cool, like cooler than any other group of people i've ever met. people smile and ask questions. they look folks in the eye and they call everything sweet. but when they hit the road, aucklanders press pedals to floors and zoom around mountain curves with a confidence that feels dangerous. then you notice how none of the cars are dented and how you never see an accident.
my time here has been sacred. maybe it's because i'm new to this place, maybe it's because i'm on a sort-of vacation, maybe it's because i am an anamoly in the world, but i feel so loved here. i feel connected. i feel free, in a lot of ways...not so defined by the past of my country or my life. not so boxed in. not told every second how angry i am about things that i should be angry about but should never show that i'm angry about them because that intimidates everyone. no one is intimidated by me here.
and there are tears now because it feels so good not to be treated like every word out of my mouth is already chosen, therefore nothing i have to say could possibly be of any importance.
it does no good to play the comparison game, though. america would lose HARD. chicago would lose even harder.
people enjoy words here, and each other. people acknowledge the heavy weight that is ego and do their best to get out of the way. no one here wants to be famous and celebrity is considered ridiculous and vacuous. no one is packaged like meat here. there is no abundance of designer labels, no collective focus on "making it." it's refreshing.
there is pain here and sadness. there are secrets and the tensions that always exist between people.
there are words like maori and pakeha. always black and white. brown and white. whatever and white. indigenous and colonialist. settler cultures. but they talk about it. they talk a LOT. they keep talking. no one lets the rope slip that connects people. fingers are bleeding, but still they are clutching at what binds, at what is sacred.
i have found new best friends, people who i will talk to for the rest of my life. there is miriam, whose comment, whose touching of the thread is what brought me here. we are parallel versions of each other. both clumsy and jewish by blood, rather than belief. both touched wrongly and told to stay quiet. both fierce under hot lights and not taking anybody's no for know, or prayer for show. we spent nine months creating across time and ocean. we never even spoke before i got off the plane. some things can't be explained or divined. some things just are.
there is sabrina, who is a walking poem. sabs, as i call her in my mind, could easily coast on what she studied in college, could define herself narrowly through career and upcoming nuptials. she quietly refuses and that refusal is brilliant in its rarity and intention. she writes poems about what she sees and what she'd like to see. she smiles at me and cares about me when i don't eat enough. she is what poetry doesn't expect.
murray cares. he looks after folks. he makes sure people are well and he means it. he doesn't act out of obligation, which is rare. he takes his time on stage, which is rarer. he calls adaptors rockets and calls his girlfriend gorgeous when he picks up the phone. he reaches for the positive, the good and becomes a conduit for what is kind and right.
christian lives in a castle with erin. they have a feijoa tree in their back yard, which feels like the beginning and the end of the world. his poems try to bring order out of the confusion of humanity and color. he navigates between countries, languages and idealogies. he demands hope from the audience and he gets it. he gets it.
penny is the woman kind and generous enough to give me a place to stay at her home. it is magical. there is a lovely garden, exploding with colors and old bits of things. sunlight lays itself across her bed, wind rushes from front door to back and no matter where you are, you can see trees and the tops of things. penny frets about whether or not i'm eating enough and leaves the light on when i come back late, which has been every night. she is a writer, too, and a traveler. her capacity to do and to think and to be is the physical example of a life well-lived. she tells me to make myself at home. she gives me toast and fruit and avocado and coffee. she shows me how the details of caring are what underscore comfort. she is as magical as her house.
those are only a few people, though. so many more have been kind, welcoming, encouraging. dan, miriam's fiance, gives me books on nikola tesla to read and tells me about the best food. he shows my lover his garden and walks in the street to make cabs uncomfortable. shane has the only spoken word radio show in auckland called "dirty words." indirectly, his love for spoken word and poetry are what brought me here. thanks, man.
"The Phat Grrrl Diaries" is on its first shelf in a store. that store is the Women's Bookshop in Auckland. i asked a women's bookstore in Chicago if they wanted to sell my book. they never responded. from thousands of miles away, that just seems silly.
i feel like i've gotten out of quicksand and onto actual earth. maybe i needed to travel all along. maybe chicago's just not the place for me.
i don't miss it, actually. i miss my love, my family and a couple friends. that's it. the rest of it? the backbiting, the political bullshit that invades supposedly underground art, the ass-kissing, the lack of cultural analysis and artistic critique and how much is taken for granted? i don't miss any of that. and it doesn't appear like i'm missed in chicago, except by my love, my family and a couple friends. i'm homesick, but i keep realizing that i don't actually have a home in a city that treats me like i'm a stranger. i feel more loved in auckland than i ever have in america. what's that about?
in 10 days, i've done 10 interviews, 5 rehearsals and 2 shows. i'm living the life i've always wanted and it feels really good. the other life that i had before i came here, filled with tears and hurt and hard work that never seemed to amount to much, is gone. i'm not going back to that.
auckland has shown me what it means to be human, to have a mirror to my face, instead of a funhouse mirror being peddled as an everyday looking glass. auckland has shown me myself when i am not warped by manipulated history and uninformed opinions.
auckland has taught me what i've been aching to learn...what it means to be a poet.
just remember...
windows are not screened, doors are thrown wide and wanton like legs tired of constantly being crossed.
the wind sings through clothes, bringing katy dids and cicadas buzzing against walls while millions of spiders make their plans, watching warily from corners of impossibly high ceilings.
auckland is a sly grin of a city. the folks here are cool, like real cool, like real real cool, like cooler than any other group of people i've ever met. people smile and ask questions. they look folks in the eye and they call everything sweet. but when they hit the road, aucklanders press pedals to floors and zoom around mountain curves with a confidence that feels dangerous. then you notice how none of the cars are dented and how you never see an accident.
my time here has been sacred. maybe it's because i'm new to this place, maybe it's because i'm on a sort-of vacation, maybe it's because i am an anamoly in the world, but i feel so loved here. i feel connected. i feel free, in a lot of ways...not so defined by the past of my country or my life. not so boxed in. not told every second how angry i am about things that i should be angry about but should never show that i'm angry about them because that intimidates everyone. no one is intimidated by me here.
and there are tears now because it feels so good not to be treated like every word out of my mouth is already chosen, therefore nothing i have to say could possibly be of any importance.
it does no good to play the comparison game, though. america would lose HARD. chicago would lose even harder.
people enjoy words here, and each other. people acknowledge the heavy weight that is ego and do their best to get out of the way. no one here wants to be famous and celebrity is considered ridiculous and vacuous. no one is packaged like meat here. there is no abundance of designer labels, no collective focus on "making it." it's refreshing.
there is pain here and sadness. there are secrets and the tensions that always exist between people.
there are words like maori and pakeha. always black and white. brown and white. whatever and white. indigenous and colonialist. settler cultures. but they talk about it. they talk a LOT. they keep talking. no one lets the rope slip that connects people. fingers are bleeding, but still they are clutching at what binds, at what is sacred.
i have found new best friends, people who i will talk to for the rest of my life. there is miriam, whose comment, whose touching of the thread is what brought me here. we are parallel versions of each other. both clumsy and jewish by blood, rather than belief. both touched wrongly and told to stay quiet. both fierce under hot lights and not taking anybody's no for know, or prayer for show. we spent nine months creating across time and ocean. we never even spoke before i got off the plane. some things can't be explained or divined. some things just are.
there is sabrina, who is a walking poem. sabs, as i call her in my mind, could easily coast on what she studied in college, could define herself narrowly through career and upcoming nuptials. she quietly refuses and that refusal is brilliant in its rarity and intention. she writes poems about what she sees and what she'd like to see. she smiles at me and cares about me when i don't eat enough. she is what poetry doesn't expect.
murray cares. he looks after folks. he makes sure people are well and he means it. he doesn't act out of obligation, which is rare. he takes his time on stage, which is rarer. he calls adaptors rockets and calls his girlfriend gorgeous when he picks up the phone. he reaches for the positive, the good and becomes a conduit for what is kind and right.
christian lives in a castle with erin. they have a feijoa tree in their back yard, which feels like the beginning and the end of the world. his poems try to bring order out of the confusion of humanity and color. he navigates between countries, languages and idealogies. he demands hope from the audience and he gets it. he gets it.
penny is the woman kind and generous enough to give me a place to stay at her home. it is magical. there is a lovely garden, exploding with colors and old bits of things. sunlight lays itself across her bed, wind rushes from front door to back and no matter where you are, you can see trees and the tops of things. penny frets about whether or not i'm eating enough and leaves the light on when i come back late, which has been every night. she is a writer, too, and a traveler. her capacity to do and to think and to be is the physical example of a life well-lived. she tells me to make myself at home. she gives me toast and fruit and avocado and coffee. she shows me how the details of caring are what underscore comfort. she is as magical as her house.
those are only a few people, though. so many more have been kind, welcoming, encouraging. dan, miriam's fiance, gives me books on nikola tesla to read and tells me about the best food. he shows my lover his garden and walks in the street to make cabs uncomfortable. shane has the only spoken word radio show in auckland called "dirty words." indirectly, his love for spoken word and poetry are what brought me here. thanks, man.
"The Phat Grrrl Diaries" is on its first shelf in a store. that store is the Women's Bookshop in Auckland. i asked a women's bookstore in Chicago if they wanted to sell my book. they never responded. from thousands of miles away, that just seems silly.
i feel like i've gotten out of quicksand and onto actual earth. maybe i needed to travel all along. maybe chicago's just not the place for me.
i don't miss it, actually. i miss my love, my family and a couple friends. that's it. the rest of it? the backbiting, the political bullshit that invades supposedly underground art, the ass-kissing, the lack of cultural analysis and artistic critique and how much is taken for granted? i don't miss any of that. and it doesn't appear like i'm missed in chicago, except by my love, my family and a couple friends. i'm homesick, but i keep realizing that i don't actually have a home in a city that treats me like i'm a stranger. i feel more loved in auckland than i ever have in america. what's that about?
in 10 days, i've done 10 interviews, 5 rehearsals and 2 shows. i'm living the life i've always wanted and it feels really good. the other life that i had before i came here, filled with tears and hurt and hard work that never seemed to amount to much, is gone. i'm not going back to that.
auckland has shown me what it means to be human, to have a mirror to my face, instead of a funhouse mirror being peddled as an everyday looking glass. auckland has shown me myself when i am not warped by manipulated history and uninformed opinions.
auckland has taught me what i've been aching to learn...what it means to be a poet.
just remember...
(This was written and posted by Nikki Patin on Facebook this morning, and she was pleased to share it with you all via the blog - we will never forget, Nikki!)
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