liquid inspiration

On Sunday I attended the New Issues Press / Herb Scott Memorial fundraiser at Bell's Eccentric Cafe, and enjoyed readings by poets native to Kalamazoo and dear to Mr. Scott and to the CW program at Western.  I always forget how much I love these readings... sitting in a hall, listening to melodious or monotonous voices shape words, lines, images; feeling a calm and focus difficult to reach in other places, brought on by the intensity of a singular voice creating a singular vision. These poets evoked images of an herb called boneset painting a pattern of flowers and tendrils across a woman's throat; a memory of a father explaining the structure of a black walnut to his son while his dog waited, tail-wagging, for him to throw it; images of old women power-walking through malls built over ancient bogs; the tale of a funeral procession for a dead dryad.  

Suttung pursuing Odin

I stood in Bell's cavernous new performance space and sipped my mead, the drink known in Norse myth as the nectar and source of poetry, stolen by Odin from Gunnlod and gifted to bards, prophets, and scholars in the mortal world. As I drank, I felt sort of out-of-time, standing in a great wooden hall and drinking an ancient drink, listening to modern-day word-smiths spin lyrics from the raw fibers and threads of momentary visions, melodic syllables, and near-forgotten memories. Is this what Anglo-Saxons felt, sitting in fire-lit mead-halls, listening to scops intone the stories of heroes and monsters, God and Creation? (Minus the train whistle as the 3:45 from Chicago rattles through town, of course.) 

Politics in place

Several days ago (seems like longer, but I'm sure that's due to my diet of 24-hour political news) the news commentary shows got hold of a clip of Congressman Paul Ryan's visit to the Iowa State Fair-- the same venue that last year saw Mitt Romney assert that "corporations are people, my friend"-- where Ryan was asked (well, shouted at, really) about whether he planned to cut Medicare. Over the hubbub, Ryan responded with (I'm paraphrasing here) "I know the people from Wisconsin and Iowa, and they know how to be polite and respectful. I don't think she's from Iowa." As it turns out, the questioner is from Iowa, and would still like a substantive answer to her question. Ryan's entire trip to the fair raises an interesting issue about people's claims on their homes, their states, their identification with certain spaces-- and this nasty tactic of taking those identifications away. Clearly, this is a trick of political rhetoric: Ryan implies that the woman and her companions were plants and therefore not worthy of attention, perhaps even insinuating that they came from one of the coasts and thus their views were not shared by or relevant to Iowans (also that they should learn to behave like nice Midwesterners). Ryan denied this woman an answer, a frustrating though not surprising choice, given that these kinds of public events are intended (or were intended, before the era of the sound bite) to provide a chance for the public to question, to speak to, to get to know the men and women who want to speak and legislate for us in government, and to give those would-be representatives a chance to hear and defend themselves to their constituents. Yet he also denied her an identification with her own home space, suggesting that "I know this place and its people better than you, and you don't fit here (despite the fact that I'm from Wisconsin, and not Iowa)." After the outburst, the woman and her friends were removed from the event. So she was denied an answer, an identification with her home state, and her space at the fair. Voiceless, homeless, placeless. 

At the same event, walking with his entourage, Ryan was approached by a journalist who asked whether he planned to do anything about the drought affecting Iowa this year. His response (again, I'm paraphrasing) was "I don't want to deal with those policies now. Right now I just want to enjoy the fair." What kind of a disconnect is this?! First, Ryan pronounces that a woman is not at home in her own home, based on his own understanding of "Iowan" values, behavior, and mind-set. Then, he brushes off an opportunity for a substantive discussion of an issue clearly important to Iowan farmers (and, I would assume, anyone else who plans to consume produce this year). Why does he choose not to address this question? Because he wants to enjoy the fair, the food, the fruits of the landscape. And possibly deep-fried Twinkies. This vacillation between claiming to understand and identify with a state, and then claiming to be too busy entertaining himself at the State Fair to show any interest in the state's landscape... it's shameful (though unsurprising) wobbling for a politician. But this instance of disconnectedness points to a greater problem. Are we able to center our selves in one place at one time, to be aware and sensitive to the varied facets of landscape and community-- the diverse voices and opinions of a place's inhabitants; the needs, character, and produce of the land; the location and history of a community's beloved events (yes, the state fair!)? Are we able to see and comprehend the connections between these facets? If not, maybe we should be. We should be aware that the drought affects the landscape, the landscape provides the space and produce for the fair, the voter and the journalist attend the fair to ask the candidate to protect their healthcare and the landscape, and the candidate... just wants a corn dog. 

**picture credit: The Phoenix Sun. Available at http://thephoenixsun.com/archives/9351/you-are-here-4