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19 february 2001
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downshifting I've been crinkling my brow lately over some stuff on my mind. The thing is, I'm happy. Very happy. I'm also thinking seriously about dropping an activity that I enjoy very much. My days as a Poetry Slammer, I believe, will soon be numbered. This doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would, because I think I've given back enough to make it equal. Slam did me right, and I did it right. And now it's time to do new stuff. The thing that's been keeping me up at night, however, is a hard-to-describe issue surrounding my experience in Slam. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport of performance poetry, there are websites and more websites with loads o' info. Last summer, I wrote about my experiences with the SlamAmerica Bus Tour, and detailed a short history of Slam. For the most part, it's been a great deal of fun, I've met some of the finest people that you could hope to know, and been endlessly entertained by the whole shebang. As I go along, however, I can't ignore this nagging feeling anymore. It wants to yank me away from Slam, if only for awhile. Sometimes I think I feel this way because I'll be 30 this year, and I feel the need to switch gears a bit. To be real honest, though, it's not as much fun as it used to be for me. In a nutshell, I've heard a lot of people preaching the same sermon for about three years. Unfortunately, I'm in the choir. New song, please. I'm not the first person to have this concern. A lot of other people have left Slam for good because of it. They become disenchanted with this art form that seems to become less Poetry and more WHAM with each passing year. There are always exceptions, such as this year's individual champion, Shane Koyzcan from Vancouver BC. There was Leah Gardner from Burlington, VT. And there was Lucy Anderton from Chicago. Between the few poets that I truly enjoyed hearing--the ones who actually had something fresh to say--I subjected myself to endless rants, pithy "revolutions", and enough egomaniacal chest-beating to fuel about 12 Tarzan remakes. Make no mistake; on occasion, I've been right in there with them. Pardon me while I dust off my Tarzan yell. I guess I've recently begun to notice an uncomfortable irony in Slam, especially in recent years. This community that preaches diversity, a cutting-edge take on life, and "the points are not the point--the point is poetry" sure is picky about what actually makes it to the big stage. Two years ago, I was about ready to eat my chair cushion at the finals if I had to listen to another "revolution". Eight performers, eight angry revolutionaries. So many revolutions, so little time. Pass me a beer, and let me know when everyone's done yelling. As I grow just a teeny bit older, it has become increasingly important for me to make my goal just a wee more managable. I think I'm pretty safe in my assumption that my poetry isn't going to save the world. I'll be lucky if one percent of the world even gets their hands on it. That saying Think Globally, Act Locally has been running through my mind like a Led Zeppelin song on our local classic rock station. I can't seem to get it out of there. So I'm changing my plans a bit. Recently, I've turned my efforts toward little more than writing. But I've been writing a lot . I've got two novels on my plate, one of which will soon fall under some editor's eyeballs. They're both creepy and rather darkly-humored, which has been the biggest surprise I've had in awhile. I'm kind of a horror writer! Rock on, and pass the chainsaw! I've become more active in my community--not with Slam, but with other writers and readers. I'm giving back to the community that truly sustains me: my home. Best of all, I draft these daily doodles for you guys. Writing this column makes me happy. Between exchanging mail with new people each week, sharing the adventure that is my life, and learning about the adventure that is yours--I'm learning where the the poetry really is. It is cheering my friends through each day, eating good food in their company, and long coffee breaks to size up our lives so far. It is my daily walk to work, the occasional traffic jam, and late-night runs to Krispy Kreme. It is Wilma. I'm starting to feel less like a slammer and more like a poet. I think that's the point. Click here if you're interested in submitting your own life and stuff . Come on...I know you've got a story in you. |
