Last night I took a trip from central Pennsylvania back to my home in New York City. It didn’t go well. Here’s my account of the doomed voyage, as told to my Twitter followers. You can be one of them by following @jasondcrane.

The story begins about an hour into the trip…

• 8:48 p.m. — Looks like our bus has broken down somewhere in rural PA. No announcement yet, but we’ve been on the roadside for a while now.
• 8:54 p.m. — It is very, very, very dark out here in rural PA. The bus is completely off. We’re sitting in absolute darkness.
• 9:00 p.m. — Aaaand now we’re moving again. Let’s see how long this lasts. I keep expecting the bus driver to be Rod Serling.
• 9:04 p.m. — I’m no mechanic, but I give this bus a 40% chance of making it to New York City.
• 9:06 p.m. — I also love that the bus driver hasn’t said one word to us all this time about what happened.
• 9:50 p.m. — We just hit a deer. This bus is doomed.
• 10:03 p.m. — Post-deer, we’re pulled over again. The bus driver asked for a male pasenger to go outside with her. I went. Front of the bus is smashed.
• 10:15 p.m. — We’re going to limp along to a rest area where we’ll switch to another, hopefully less doomed, bus.
• 10:42 p.m. — I’d like to publicly thank @reneeyoxon for suggesting I make this Voyage Of The Damned today.
• 10:46 p.m. — Picture, if you will, a man trapped on an eternal bus ride through Pennsylvania. There’s a signpost up ahead. It reads…The @Megabus Zone.
• 10:57 p.m. — Driver has MacGyvered part of the busted headlight and Mr. @Megabus has cleared us to leave. Driver is eating a salad. Then we’ll go.
• 11:01 p.m. — “@Megabus: We’ll get at least part of your bus to its destination, no matter what we have to kill along the way.”
• 11:08 p.m. — Sweet weeping Jesus, we’re on the road! New York here we (possibly) come (if we don’t hit anything else)!
• 12:34 a.m. — You have got to be kidding me. Now we’re stuck in a looong line of cars on the highway at 12:33 a.m. Accident? Construction? God hates me?
• 12:45 a.m. — I don’t know what I did to anger the gods before this bus trip, but I’d like to apologize.
• 1:03 a.m. — People are getting out of their cars and walking around on the highway. That’s a good sign, right? I hate Pennsylvania.
• 1:06 a.m. — It’s on nights like this that I wish I still had the cyanide tablet that Mom used to pack in my lunchbox.
• 1:32 a.m. — Guy behind me is having a heated argument with a woman. He keeps smacking my seat. I ask him quietly to stop. He starts yelling at me.
• 1:35 a.m. — A breakdown. A deer strike. A huge accident. We haven’t moved in an hour. Six hours and counting for a 4.5 hour trip. Not out of PA yet.
• 1:47 a.m. — We are doing a k-turn. In a bus. On the highway. No idea where we might be going. Doesn’t look good.
• 1:54 a.m. — Off the highway. Driving on surface streets through a small Jersey town. Presumably toward our next accident or hijacking.
• 2:01 a.m. — Passed a billboard that said “Think Red.” Guy behind me yelling into his phone. At someone on the upper level of this bus. I’m thinking red.
• 2:07 a.m. — The guy behind me is so loud that the bus driver just turned on her mic to ask him to be quiet. And you’ll never believe why he’s angry…
• 2:08 a.m. — …He’s angry because he apparently fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his partner slapped it out. And he’s enraged.
• 2:16 a.m. — Every other truck that was rerouted by the cops continued straight on this road. We exited. We’re pulled over again. Driver on her cell.
• 2:24 a.m. — If we ever do reach Manhattan, I’ll still have to get to Brooklyn by subway in the wee hours on a Sunday.
• 2:41 a.m. — Hour 7 of this 4.5 hour trip.
• 2:55 a.m. — We’re at the Lincoln Tunnel. I may start crying with joy.
• 3:04 a.m. — Off the bus. Headed for the subway.
• 3:55 a.m. — Home. Going to bed. My 4.5 hour trip took 8.5 hours. Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I wrote this on the bus from Albany to New York City.

The Blues

1.

it all goes back to the blues
that’s what they’d have you believe
the gravel your boots crunch
must lead to a dusty crossroad
every baby’s cry is a bottleneck slide
on the worn strings of a scarred guitar
whiskey runs from the kitchen faucet
the radiator’s busted so body heat will have to do

2.

snowscape bus rides to big city lights
he’s seated across from a pale redhead
who looks like she’s crying but isn’t
he pretends to be watching the trees
safe in the anonymity of sunglasses
they won’t be meeting later in a juke joint
she won’t nurse a beer or lean in close
to hear him over the sound of the band

Listen using the player above.

/ / /

the trick to travel
isn’t remembering
your underwear or socks
it’s knowing which books to take

/ / /

part of a river of stones

I wrote this poem a couple years ago during a train trip from Albany, NY, to Rochester, NY. (The poem is in my book, Unexpected Sunlight.) I shot the video yesterday while traveling by train from New York City to Albany. As always, I like to acknowledge my debt to Dave Bonta for inspiring me to try my hand at video poems.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I first lived in Japan from 1991-92. During that time I picked up a Penguin edition of Japanese haiku master Matsuo Basho’s book Narrow Road To The Deep North. I’ve loved him ever since. Not just his work, but the very idea of him.

Ah, Basho, who were you really?

My friend the Japanese literature scholar –
by which I mean to say he is a scholar
of Japanese literature and a literature scholar
who is Japanese — thinks you were a ninja.
Or a famous warrior of some sort.
I can’t quite remember. But his point
is that no mere poet could have passed through
all those military checkpoints.
And no old-man poet could have covered
all that ground as fast as you say you did.
Were you lying? Is all poetry fiction?

Perhaps you started out from Tokyo –
they called it Edo then –
with every intention of completing the journey
along that famous narrow road.
Perhaps you packed your paper and brushes
to write those glorious verses.
Perhaps you set out upon the path,
made it as far as the first resting place
before your old bones got the better
of your young heart.
Poets invent whole worlds –
all you needed to do was describe
the world that already existed. Even a mortal
could do that.

Me, I like the ninja idea.
Poets are thought of as many things –
deadly is rarely one of them.
We need more poet ninjas, creeping about
on moonless nights, stealing
into the rooms of young lovers, leaving
a verse or two on the pillow.
Gone as silently as the break
in this line.

Then again, maybe I’d rather
you were just a poet.
Not a liar. Not a ninja.
Not a warrior traveling in disguise.
Just a man who wished to see the mountains
of Japan’s interior with his own eyes.
A man who used his paper and his brushes
to let us see those same mountains,
thousands of miles away,
all these many years later.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This is poem #14 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “crossroads” poem.

Pennsylvania or bust

five hours from anywhere
he stares out the bus window
wipes off the occasional
condensation, sign of life
the big buildings of the city
give way to the small towns
on the border then to the
trees and trees and trees
there are still pastures here
acres and acres of land
given over to cows and sheep
he falls asleep as the sun sets
head resting against the window
dreams traveling
in the opposite direction

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Poem #13 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a question-and-answer poem.

What is loneliness?

10:30 p.m.
34 degrees
corner of Western & Tryon
waiting for the #10 bus
with two drunks
& a dead phone battery

what we choose to remember

in the park on the hill
trees shade the monuments
to the dead, the killed

mottled sunlight hits the plumes
of a fountain, the breeze
carries mist down the hill
toward the center of the city

a man with twitching legs
smokes pot on a bench
in front of the courthouse

do this in memory of me

there’s a rainbow on the east side
of the fountain
I’m glad I don’t live here

From 100925 Pine Hollow Arboretum

Here are photos from my trip to Pine Hollow Arboretum in Slingerlands, NY. I took a tour of the grounds and then heard Walt Franklin read his poetry and travelogues. What a wonderful afternoon (with a nice bike ride there and back, too). At the bottom of this post is a video of Walt reading an excerpt from one of his longer poems about trees.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Another poem written on the Tennessee River in Chattanooga.

Water Song

how many lives have been lived along this water?
what was here before?
before the condos
before the artificial park
before the riverboats full of tourists
before riverfront revitalization
before speeding cars on one bridge
and Sunday strollers on the other
how many souls has this water collected?
what songs have been sung on its banks?
and if it’s quiet enough, can you still hear them?

Listen to this poem using the player above.

On the Tennessee River

woke up in a Manhattan hi-rise
going to bed a Tennessee riverboat
neither of them is home
home is a carousel horse
I can never quite grab on to
not these lightning strikes
or the rain on this river
home was our shared bed
the sound of little boys wrestling
it’s so quiet now, so very quiet
there are bridges on both sides of me
and I have nowhere to go on either one

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Another poem written during my recent stay in Chattanooga, TN.

Lights, Camera, Action!

this town is like a Hollywood set
look behind the storefronts
the buildings that line Broad Street
there’s nothing there
the bricks rise to the skies
joggers clot the river bridge
but the heart has been cut out
Walter Cronkite once said
this was the dirtiest town in America
it’s cleaner now – wiped clean of its history
all the people shunted out to the pavement
paradise, never far from a strip mall
there are historical markers
on every downtown street
they are little more than headstones
marking empty graves, the city’s corpse
long ago merged with the soil
covered with the dust of razed landmarks
“Right where Starbucks is, this is where
your granddaddy built tank engines
to fight the Nazis.”

Listen to this poem using the player above.

in any given set

we walked around it all day
that little Japanese tea cup
sitting on what had been the dining room floor

it said Sanriku on the side
in bold yellow kanji
evoking memories of contented nights at the restaurant

when I arrived in Japan
my host mother could only say
“Are you Jay?” — still three more words than I

could say to her
ignorant as I was
of foreign tongues and other people’s customs

nineteen years gone
and I know more words
but I still wonder whether I understand

most of what you say
or what I am supposed to do
in any given set of circumstances

the little tea cup
occupies its fixed place
on the floor, forces us, unknowing, to give it room

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I wrote this poem today while sitting on a rock along the Housatonic River in Connecticut. The photo below, linked from this site, is of the exact spot where this poem was written. That seems like a remarkable stroke of luck, but actually this spot is one of few along this part of the Housatonic with easy access from Route 7. You can click the photo to see a larger version.

Housatonic Reverie

This is my river, the Housatonic.
This water flows through my land.
I learned to walk near its banks,
Played on a street that bore its name.

I had to turn around and come back to find it –
give up the illusion of forward motion –
to sit on this rock and hear the water’s voice
singing a long-lost lullaby.

Tadpoles swim in a pool sheltered by stones.
They, too, will learn to walk
along the banks of the Housatonic.
Those, that is, who survive

the difficult road to maturity,
a road whose casualties
line the shoulder
like so many car-struck deer.

I put out my right foot to steady myself,
place it on a rock that wobbles;
a handy metaphor to remind me of the
uncertainty of even the most solid objects.

Down the river a ways, a hawk makes silent circles.
The occasional car covers up the water’s voice,
but its song always returns, summoning me
home to my river, my land, my life.

Sure, reading poetry to a room full of people is fun, and I’ll do it whenever the opportunity presents itself. But on Thursday, May 6, I had a chance to experience poetry in a totally different way – by talking about it in two classes at Monroe Community College (MCC) in Rochester.

My friend Julie White (to whom “It Isn’t Merely The Fashioning” is dedicated) works in the Student Life office at MCC’s Damon Campus, located in downtown Rochester. When I booked the Rochester Poets reading, I asked Julie whether there were any opportunities for me to talk with students at MCC about poetry. Julie reached out to several faculty members, and I ended up scheduling two classes with Julie Damerell, an MCC professor who is herself a poet.

I showed up in Julie’s first class at 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. She warned me that attendance wasn’t always stellar, and that the previous class had seen one student attend. The class was a transitional class, for students who needed some extra guidance in English as they began their college careers. On this day, four students came, and it turned into one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had with poetry.

I have to be honest – I had absolutely no plan whatsoever when the class began. I’d given some thought to what I might say, and Julie Damerell had also suggested some topics. But when the four students were seated around the table and it was my turn to talk, I hadn’t decided on anything other than, “Hi. My name is Jason Crane.” Once that was said, I was winging it all the way.

The first thing I did was read them a poem from Unexpected Sunlight called “The Soft Friction Of Sliding Glass.” After I read the poem, I explained that it’s about my first serious girlfriend. This was all Lawrence, one of the students, needed to hear to begin a conversation. We talked about including a poem about an old girlfriend in a book dedicated to my wife. Lawrence thought that was a crazy thing to do, and he was sure that it would cause some kind of problem. I told him that my wife and I have been together 15 years, and that I want my memories to be close to the surface because I believe that makes me a better husband. Samantha, another of the students, chimed in to say that people don’t have to forget what happened to them just because they aren’t with that person anymore. The discussion carried on for several minutes, and I knew we were going to have no problem filling up the class time.

Next I asked the students to read “Gene Ludwig” and then tell me about the man described in the poem. I asked them to describe him physically and tell me what he did for a living and what he was like. They made their guesses, some closer than others, and then I told them about Gene and his career as a jazz organist. Julie looked up Gene online and showed the students his picture, and Lawrence talked about how Gene “is true to himself when he plays music. He can show people who he really is.”

Laura, another student, had been reading my poem “For Henry Grimes” during the latter part of this discussion, and she said she wanted to know about Henry next. I asked her to read the poem, and then asked the class to describe Henry. Lawrence said Henry reminded him of the old men who sit on the stoop on his street and watch the neighborhood. I described Henry’s incredible story of success, disappearance and rediscovery and asked Laura to read the poem again with this new knowledge.

We read more poems and talked about them, with the conversation veering into general discussions about life and art and creativity. Laura told us about her grandfather and her siblings and Samantha talked about the poems she’d written. They read more of my work aloud, and I decided partway through the class to give them each a copy of Unexpected Sunlight.

These four students opened my eyes to a new way to hear my own work, and their intelligent, often surprising observations were a joy to hear. I’m truly grateful for the experience. After the class, I wrote a poem called “Attention” in tribute to them.

Following a fun afternoon of poetry in Avon, NY (see part 1), I headed to St. John Fisher college in Rochester, NY, for the May edition of the Rochester Poets reading series. I was one of two featured poets, the other being my friend Matt Smythe.

Matt and I both went to high school in Canandaigua, NY, a picturesque town about 40 minutes from Rochester. The town sits on one end of Canandaigua Lake, with Naples at the other. Matt graduated in 1990 and I escaped the following year. We never hung around in high school, although we each knew the other existed, and we had some friends in common. We both left town after graduating and didn’t see each other again for more than 15 years.

In 2008, our mutual friend Travis Nixon died after a long battle with cancer. He was 36 years old. Travis owned the gift and game shop Coyote’s Den in Canandaigua and served on the city council. He was beloved by the community, and people of all ages were at his funeral. Matt and I were among them, and we talked for a few minutes after the funeral. Matt had spent nearly a decade in the Army, then ended up getting an advanced degree in literature with a focus on poetry. Not long after, I sent Matt an early version of the manuscript for Unexpected Sunlight.

Sending out a manuscript to other poets is a tricky business. For the most part, in my experience, you’ll get no comments at all. Occasionally you’ll get a short note. If you’re very lucky, you’ll get what I received from Matt – detailed, poem by poem, line by line analysis of the manuscript with suggestions and comments. Matt’s careful eye made the manuscript much better than it would have been, a fact for which I’ll be forever grateful.

Fast-forward to 2010. By some freak of publishing fate, the lovely folks at FootHills Publishing decided to risk the complete collapse of their 25-year-old press by putting out Unexpected Sunlight. That meant it was time for me to start organizing readings wherever I could. And although I’d lived in Rochester from 2000-2007, I’d been completely inactive in the poetry scene. The two names I knew were Frank Judge and Writers & Books. I contacted both about doing a feature reading, and Frank responded to say he had a slot in two weeks and could I make it? I accepted and requested that it be a co-feature for Matt and me.

And so on Wednesday, May 5, a group of about 30 people gathered in the Hughes Rotunda of the Wilson Education Building at St. John Fisher College. Several of the attendees had never been to a poetry reading. A friend was there whom I’d last seen her in 1991. Two of my sister’s friends were there (huzzah!) as were many other friends from my years in Rochester. Thanks to everyone who attended. It was wonderful to have you all there.

The reading itself was a lot of fun. Matt and I asked Frank to call us both up to the front of the room so we could flip a coin to see who would go first. My side of the coin came up and I led off. I read a mix of poems from Unexpected Sunlight and some newer poems, too. I also read two poems of Matt’s (“Stoplight Red” and “The Air On Bourbon”), because we’d decided in advance to each read the other’s work. I love Matt’s writing and enjoy reading it aloud even more.

Matt followed me with a strong set, some of which came from his master’s thesis, a book-length collection called All Water. Matt is passionate about music and fishing and human relationships, all of which comes through in his work. As I mentioned, he also spent eight years in the military, and his experiences certainly inform his writing. Matt read two of my poems, too – “Come with me, Shelby” and “Lottery.”

All in all, a rewarding evening of poetry, surrounded by friends and fellow poets. And I don’t think it will be the last time Matt and I work together. Stay tuned!

Coming up in part 3: I was the guest speaker in two classes at Monroe Community College on May 6. It was a transformative experience. Read part 3.

Thanks to Rome Celli for the photos used in this story.

What could be better than a day full of poetry? How about two days full of poetry?

I traveled to the Rochester, NY, area this week for a series of poetry events. On Wednesday, May 5, I made my first stop in Avon, NY, about 30 minutes from Rochester. I joined Alan Casline, John Roche, Paulette Swartzfager, Stephen Lewandowski, Dwain Wilder and Ken Warren for an afternoon of poetry beside the cannons in the park. The park is in the middle of a traffic circle in downtown Avon, so our reading was accompanied by the slow circling of cars and trucks and the occasional, slightly confused pedestrian.

Alan Casline [pictured at left] brought ambrosia with mead to share with the group. It was a gorgeous afternoon, so we sprawled out on the grass to listen and to soak up the sun. Alan read several poems, including one about a hike he and Steve Lewandowski went on that included a line about Steve sliding down a snow-covered bank “like a third grader on a lunch tray.”

Ken Warren [pictured at top] was visiting from Ohio. [Correction, via John Roche: "Ken Warren spent decades in Ohio, but recently moved to a town near Lake Ontario northeast of Buffalo."] He read a few poems and then a longer prose piece remembering the killings at Kent State, the 40th anniversary of which had passed the day before. It was a very powerful essay, well researched and full of moving quotes from people who had been on the campus that day.

John Roche [pictured at left] paid homage to the location of the reading will several poems about Avon, the town where he makes his home. One of his pieces was a protest poem about the closing of a local watering hole. I enjoyed John’s intensely specific words of protest — it’s important to be reminded that protest poems can be very, very local.

I went next, reading a new poem, “The Last Piece Of Ice Under The Sky” along with “I Am Not An Indian.”

Stephen Lewandowski, [pictured at left] a longtime chronicler of – and advocate for – the Finger Lakes region, ended his set of poems with one that took me completely by surprise. It was a poem about the increase of the signal strength of Jazz90.1 (WGMC) and Steve’s resulting ability to hear Oscar Peterson and other jazz greats at his Finger Lakes home. What made this poem so surprising for me is that boosting the station’s power was a project I oversaw as station manager of Jazz90.1 from 2002-2004. What was even more surprising was that it was a complete coincidence that Steve read the piece – he didn’t realize my connection to the station. I was very moved to hear someone who so appreciated the results of all those thousands of hours of fundraising and advocacy.

Unfortunately, I had to leave right before Dwain Wilder [pictured at left] and – I assume – Paulette Swartzfager read (sorry!), so that I could make it to my own reading that night at St. John Fisher. But I thoroughly enjoyed spending an afternoon in the company of such insightful people. I hope the “poetry at the cannons” reading will be just the first in a long series of such events in Avon.

Coming up in part 2: My “book tour” continues at St. John Fisher with fellow poet Matt Smythe. Read part 2.

Thanks to Paulette for the photos in this story.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Observations from a recent drive from Albany, NY, to Middleburgh, NY, and back.

Photographer’s Web site

Middleburgh Sketches
April 19, 2010

tiger-striped hills
cloud-down hovering
one goose in the April sun

* * *

Cachao’s bass at the root
I on the mountaintop
summer salsero amid spring hills

* * *

thick-grown budding trees
guards posted beside the road
the city is a surprise

Listen to this poem using the player above.

North Greenbush To Albany

Start: the Sharp house, aging Greek revival
in what was once Bloominville.
They used to bottle spring water here
until the well dried up. Then it’s three miles,
nearly all downhill, because the Hudson
draws all riders to its level.
There are two bridges – the first
across the railbed, trains carrying what few goods
we still produce and the many others
we pull in like driftwood from the sea.
These caravans of metal containers are
bound for Manhattan, lodestone of heartbeats
and rushing blood. The same lines
carry women and men to concrete hope,
to the race, to the scurry. Some will return,
lowering their sights and settling in for the long haul.
Others will half-return, riding more prestigious lines
to their magazine homes. Or so I imagine,
in the ten seconds it takes my legs
to propel the bicycle over the tracks.
The second bridge is at the base of the hill,
the bottom of the gravity well. The concrete wave
crests atop the Hudson, that once mighty barrier-highway
that is now the scenic accompaniment to stroller moms
and weekend excursionists. The river is brown on this April afternoon,
laced with the white rush of recent rains. Soon
they’ll haul the old battleship back to the dock,
so children can giggle on the blood-washed decks
where their grandfathers stood taught, gripping the rails
with terror-strengthened fingers.
The river bridge descends into the city.
The Hudson is reluctant to give up the living,
and matches every descent with a grinding climb,
testing my resolve to leave its banks. A slow, steady rhythm
carries me past Albany Lodge No. 49 and the Beirut remains
of a once majestic hotel. This is the King’s Highway.
George Washington once climbed this same hill, walked
through this city when concrete was wood, pavement
was cobblestone or dirt, before Rockefeller’s bulldozers
created this modernity, drained its character for the queen.
The general is remembered with a street and a park and a blue iron sign.
The bells are tolling the three-quarter hour as I pass the chambers
where the laws are made, and the halls of education and bureaucracy.
Then it’s home, where a distant city’s baseball team is on the radio,
and I cook my imported convenience-store noodles and sit down to write.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tea Ceremony Hurts Yours Legs

at 17, I studied the ancient art of tea ceremony
with my final host-mother
and a teacher who seemed middle-aged
but may have been just slightly older than I am now
I’m not sure about the sensei,
but one thing I do know is
tea ceremony hurts your legs
the insidious thing is that you
don’t even notice it at first
you’re too focused on
placing the bowl just so
the ladle along the crook
between your thumb and index finger
the sugary snacks on a piece
of pristine rice paper
floating above the tatami floor
after a while, it feels like
you yourself are suspended
above the floor, just slightly
is this enlightenment?
did I, at 17, achieve satori?
wait till my parents hear about this!
and it’s then, as you leap up
to spread the word
that you realize your mistake
and pitch face-down onto the mat
spilling your carefully whipped green foam
and crushing the delicate wooden ladle

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Aomori

standing on the cliffs of Aomori
is like standing at the end of the world
one more step and you can take
a refreshing swim in the bay
if you survive the drop, that is
squint your eyes and it feels like flying
pine trees level with the top of your head
and the waves continuing their
thousand-year attack on the rocks below
I kept better notes than this
but they were lost in a flood
nothing so grand as the sea
winning that final victory
it was just that our washing machine
overflowed and submerged the basement
who would have thought
after a thousand years
it would be a load of laundry
that would finally conquer
the cliffs of Aomori?

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tsurumigawa photo by Ivan Kurniawan

Tsurumigawa

ironically, we lived along the See Crane River
it sliced through the rice fields
that were just steps from the busy road

Tokyo and Yokohama and Kawasaki
are joined like an urban Cerberus
between them, hidden bits of unexpected farmland

bent old women in worn rubber boots
knotted bandanas around their heads
slop through the wet paddies

reaching crumpled fingers into waving rice
and plucking out the o-kome
the flesh of their people

in Ichigao, our town,
the women could have walked
a mile along the river

and treated themselves
to McDonald’s french fries
or the Colonel’s secret recipe

of herbs and spices
a bloodless invasion
leaving no cloud in its wake

I don’t think we ever actually
saw a crane on the river
that bore the bird’s name

like Oak Glen or Forest Heights
the name is simply a reminder
of what’s been taken away

gold flecks in green tea
gold plastic across the street
from the train station

and the Colonel standing there
arms outstretched, smiling
beckoning the cranes to fly to him

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Miso Soup
(for Jennifer)

the only thing better than the taste of the sushi
is the lingering aftertaste
mixed with miso shiru and warm ocha
a sensation so rich
it’s almost another meal in itself
I always order one extra piece of unagi
and remember walking into Meiji Jingu
holding your hand
you gave me a book on Zen –
I was into that then –
and I gave you an atlas of our world
so we could choose the next destination
we sat in the kaitenzushi-ya in Shibuya
and watched the endless parade
of plates, daring us
in Nikko, we took a photo in an unexpected
tram car that was right there on the sidewalk
then climbed up all those stairs
to see the sanzaru
there were many little tremors and
the one big one
that had us scurrying for the doorjamb
just as the shaking stopped
and yes, there were cherry blossoms –
there always are –
right outside our bedroom window
and the cleaning man came by each week
and always seemed surprised to see us
we gave him our maple tree
(and you gave me its cousin years later)
I savor these moments and roll them around
on my tongue, heavy with the dusky taste
of shoyu and the tang of vinegar in the rice

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

I wrote this over the weekend on the train from Albany, NY, to Rochester, NY.

Photo (c) 2008, Brian Cameron

Maple Leaf

ice flows on the canal
and I flow the opposite way,
bound west on two steel lines
toward my old not-home

now the water is a river
filled with half-wild islands
and on each piece of snowy ground,
a flock of waiting birds

Amsterdam, Utica, Syracuse —
ancient and exotic names
they have turned their backs
on the water and rails

further on now through fields
where sparse grasses and weeds
poke up through the snow
like drowning men’s fingertips

blowing snow, fog-like
makes of the rail line a dream sequence
empty nests wedged in tree limbs
empty factories with no hope of spring

for an instant, beside the tracks,
two men with rifles search the trees for prey
while nearby an empty backyard
where an empty swing set sways

The fine folks at Thacher State Park in Voorheesville, NY, had a Native Thanksgiving celebration this weekend. Here are a few photos from our time there:

I drove to Shaftsbury, VT, today to visit one of the houses in which poet Robert Frost lived. It was in this house — known as the Stone House — that he wrote “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Just as most of the classic Xmas albums were recorded in the summer, this quintessential winter poem was written in July.

Jen and I just got back from five days in San Francisco:

It’s not that I hate Las Vegas, it’s more that … um … OK, it’s that I hate Las Vegas.

I’m writing this from the Sahara Hotel and Casino in Vegas, where I’ve come for a meeting of hotel union folks. Las Vegas is one of the power bases of my union, UNITE HERE, given that we represent hotel and gaming workers. Nearly every casino on The Strip is union, and this city is home to more than 50,000 of our members. Hotel and gaming jobs here are becoming middle-class jobs as a result.

For me, though, Vegas is everything I dislike about American culture — lit up. Commercialism, overindulgence, self-centeredness, neon. It’s all here in quantities that could make even the most calm and collected person lose their marbles. And as you’ve learned by now, I’m not the most calm and collected person.

I think I would have liked Vegas 50 years ago, when the Sahara was built. Back when the entertainers had last names like Sinatra, Martin, and Davis. Back when Count Basie backed Nat Cole and swing was the popular music of the day. These days, though, most of that history is buried under an enormous pyramid, a fake Eiffel Tower, and a make-believe New York City.

The popular wisdom about this town is that everything’s cheap because they want you to gamble. That may have been the case back in the day, but now Vegas is a tourist destination for the whole family, and even the most obscure magician or comedian charges $50 a ticket.

At least I’m staying in one of the last surviving hotels from the golden era of Vegas. The Sahara was built in 1952, and it looks it. It’s far down on The Strip — actually off the main part of The Strip, as far as I can tell. The only other hotels and casinos near here are the Las Vegas Hilton and the Stratosphere. Except for the color TV and the wireless Internet access, it’s easy to believe that this room was occupied by John and Mary from Wisconsin on their first big trip back in the late 50s.

To summarize: It’s fantastic that so many workers are able to build a life here with a good wage and decent healthcare. That’s a good thing, and I hope for their sake that this place keeps going strong. But for my sake, I hope the next one of these meetings is somewhere else.

For information on UNITE HERE Local 226 in Las Vegas, visit their Web site. For more about the Sahara, check out this interactive timeline.

• Have dinner with my family on Friday evening
• Take Bernie to the Rhinos playoff game
• Spend a lazy Saturday with Jen and the boys
• Announce a game for the vintage base ball playoffs at Genesee Country Village on Sunday

And then, at a few minutes after 2 p.m., I got a call from the HQ of my union in New York City, asking me to hop on a plane and fly to New Jersey to lead a campaign for five days. So here I am, ensconced in a hotel room, glued to my cell phone and my e-mail account as I work to coordinate a team of seven people for an event early next week.

I cannot tell a lie: It’s kinda fun. I work for a union local, rather than the HQ, so I don’t have to travel too far, with the exception of the occasional trip to one of the cities upstate. That’s a nice arrangement, because I’m home with my family a fair amount. But it’s fun to get out of town and help some workers fight for what they deserve. It’s exciting to hit the ground running and to try to pull off a big event with a short amount of time. And it’s gratifying to know that the reason I do all this is so some folks are better able to defend themselves against a ravenous corporation which is trying to steal their benefits.

The trip from Rochester to Albany took about 4 1/2 hours, just a bit longer than it takes in a car if you don’t stop. The big difference, though, was in the whole vibe of the trip. It was really family friendly — a roomy train with lots of space that allowed all of us to move around, cuddle, and talk to one another. If you’re traveling with a baby, you can’t beat it. John fell asleep at about 1 p.m. (an hour before we got on the train), and didn’t wake up until my cousin picked us up at the Albany station. Not bad at all.

Bernie was so excited he could hardly stand it. He loves his cousins Jack and Grace, so the whole concept of the trip was thrilling. Add the train on top of that, and you’ve got one very happy boy!

Train travel in the U.S. is certainly way behind train travel in Japan, unless you live in the NYC-Boston corridor. But it’s out there, and worth a little investigation if you’re thinking of taking a trip. Leave the driving to someone else, and stretch out with a book as you glide down the tracks. It’s a heck of a way to travel.

(AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND) 9 Dec 2005 — Ahhh, it is nice to be back in an English speaking country again. Even if they don’t really speak English! (Kidding). (Kind of). Auckland is a pleasant enough, if not boring, city. Many Kiwis (who do not live here), say it is the worse part of NZ. I can see their point. I was even in Wellington for 4 days (the capital), and it was smaller (300,00 v. 1.2 million), yet it felt like there was much more culture and other amenities…

NZ has this reputation of being a “green” country. Maybe I should hire their P.R. company to help get me a job. They produce more waste per individual then any industrial nation. They have more cars per capita then we do in the US!!!! Also, their streets are full of cheap Japanese used car imports. These cars could not pass the smog controls in Japan, so they sell them here, where their laws are less stringent! They also drive like idiots, (as well as on the “other” side of the road). NO ONE crosses the street without having a walk sign! It’s bloody ridiculous! I waited too. Especially because i had no idea from where i would be hit if i tried to cross. I played a game the first week; if i was to cross now, when it appears clear, from where would I get plastered? After a week or so, when it seemed the worse that would happen was a little nick, I started taking matters into my own hands (or feet), and began crossing without the light! Always a rebel! The culture of NZ is a total car culture, borrowed directly from L.A. There is the ugliest huge highway that cuts the city and fills an entire little valley with the juncture of several routes and overpasses and ramps. It cuts one side from the other to any pedestrian contact! (I will add a photo today or tomorrow). It is also VERY ugly! The bus system is not real helpful, although we have used it. Also, there is one kind of regional train (and cross-country). We have used the regional often enough, and it is not bad (although it is always late). One interesting thing, however, is that for much of its line, there is only one track. Yes one. That means two trains going in opposite directions (i.e. to the city, away from the city), cannot be running at the same time… There are some places for passing… Who in their right mind did this???? (I forgot to ask!).

Now, the population of the “floating” population of Shanghai is 4 million (to refresh your memories, it is not allowed in China to just move from one place to another, you must have a resident’s card to get all the benefits of citizenship (what few remain). Yet, most of the construction workers are “illegals” from the rural areas, uncounted in census numbers). The entire population of NZ is 4.3 million. The same as just the unknown quantity in Shanghai! This is a small and intimate place. People know each other. People know their Politicians, personally. We met with two mayors! Including the mayor of Auckland, Dick Hubbard, who is a cereal magnate. He started an “ethical” business, and has some great ideas for the city. Mayor Bob, of Waitekere (one of the 5 cities that makes up the Auckland region) invited us to his home in the woods (since we mentioned we will be near there our last week at a retreat for 5 days). (All this is only 30 minutes from the city). He is a very charismatic man, from the labor party, and is trying to get some interesting things done for the city as well, to make it really more green (as is Hubbard).

One of the great things about the city is the beaches nearby and the countryside, which starts right at the city limits. I have done some hikes, but will do more when the students leave and I take a 15 day trekking trip to the south island (Auckland is on the north island).

Now what is fascinating about this country is its cultural make-up: Mostly European, 15% Maori (Kia ora, all!), abut 8% Pacific Islanders (more Samoans here then in Samoa!), and a new influx of Asians. Things are not all harmonious, but they are trying. There was a treaty with the maori in 1839, giving them equality. But, it was a little different in both languages. The Europeans (re: the “whites”), or Pakeha, did not really keep the spirit of the treaty very well. Today there is a national debate about redress issues, they redid their parliamentary system to see to it that minorities (re: Maori) have representation (gee, let’s work our system so the Blacks are represented in numbers to their populations, and the Latinos too!). As I said, it is not all rosy, but there is a determination to construct a harmonious bi-cultural society. A discussion sorely missing in the US. Yes, racism exists, etc. But still, they are addressing it publicly! Now, a problem is that a bi-cultural society does not do much for the Pacific Islanders (who were invited to come in the 60s-70s because of a labor shortage, and whose kids have largely never been to the islands (we have met with many of them)), nor the Asians. This is also somewhat being addressed. The P.I. will be a higher % of the population then the Maori in 30 years or so. A fascinating experiment in multi-culturalism… (bi-lingual education, etc.).

Some numbers, back in the 70e when the Pis came, unemployment was 1%!!!! Today it is a whopping 3.8%.

Much discussion is that the land to the Maori is not just physical, but it is their ancestors, and is very sacred. So, there are discussions in urban planning when land sacred to the maoris is threatened. Etc. (Interesting, the Maori’s arrived about 1,000 years ago from around the Pacific. Islands. Their were some 50 tribes. And they fought with each other constantly, until the Europeans arrived which united them (see, we always define our community in opposition to who is not one of us, the “other”). They were all from the same basic language family. They were only called the Maori after the arrival of the Europeans).

Well, I think that says most of the basic things i have discovered here. I also hiked in a park within Wellington where they shot the scene from Lord of the Rings when the hobbits were hiding under a huge tree root from the dark riders. And let’s not get started with King kong…

Today was the last day of classes. Monday we are heading into the hills for a 5 day “retreat” at a Yoga retreat. A beautiful space in the woods, with hiking trails, a river to swim in, cabins, food will be served to us, and we will get to the ocean a couple of times. While there we will close the semester with reflections and shit like that. The faculty stopped by last week on drive. It is lovely! As for the students…. Well, they are the same bunch of very ego-centric individuals who just can’t see beyond their own worlds and their own comforts. The faculty? Well, my tongue is very bloody from holding it all semester… But overall we do get along (at least we talk and laugh with each other, unlike last year). And our program fellow, “jefe” is just great. She helps my sanity, and she gets along with the students, so she is a good balance for us (I get along with the students too, just to be clear) (The other two faculty… well….).

I really do think the students have gotten a lot out of this program. They really will not see it until they are back home, for the most part. Their assignments for my class showed that when they put their minds to it, they do “see” things. My assignments are all fieldwork based, so it forced them to go out and look and talk to ….. locals. For the most part, i was pleased. One young lady, a Texas raised Bush-ite born again Christian, is, apparently, having an existential meltdown. She had lunch with our fellow, and is worried about going home. She sees things now that she did not before, because she was raised to think in this way, and not to look (she is also an engineering student at MIT). Her grandmother is a racist, and her parents do not treat others different from them very, well, Christian (heh, heh). She sees that there are many other views out there, all valid, some more so then hers. And she has seen people struggling in ways and communities she had never new existed. WOW, no? My work is done. Time to move on.

Soooo, I will. Everyone flies home next Friday (the 16th). As I mentioned, i will stay here for 2 days then fly down to the south Island to do some trekking. Landof glaciers and lakes and adventure! Then visit a friend in Adalaide, Australia (She and her friends are renting a house on the ocean in a national park while I am there). Then off to Sydney for 5 days… And home to the cold winter days of western New york (on the 18th, for those who care)! Well, it is nice weather to edit my video, get the revisions done for my chapter (due early Feb) (to be published in an edited volume on teaching visual anthropology by University of Texas Press), and some other business (which, unfortunately, does not pay). Although, this program (IHP), is going to pay me for a month to do some curriculum development work to try and get this program better integrated. Also, i will be teaching a 4-week intensive seminar at the University of Rochester this May-June. I am going to try and put together a mini version of this program, looking at Rochester, talking to local politicians, activists, touring neighborhoods, etc. And, next August it looks like I will be off again!!!!!

So, my friends, our journey together is coming to an end. I really appreciate the time you gave me, allowing me to bend your ears. I hope you liked my “yarns.” I will leave you with three images of Auckland. Nothing shattering, but a glimpse of the city, and the beach, only 40 minutes away, near where we will be next week. I will lose this laptop and regular internet access, but will hit-up the internet cafes every couple of days. So, please feel free to say hey.

Love to you all, have a great holiday and a very happy new year!!!!!!

Once in a while, though, you find yourself surrounded by soccer people, and you realize that you’re not alone.

Today was a day like that.

For the second consecutive year, I went to the National Soccer Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Oneonta, NY. (Yes, the Hall of Fame is in Oneonta. Don’t ask.) This year was the first all-MLS class to be inducted, and it featured one of the all-time great players in American soccer, Tab Ramos of my beloved MetroStars. Also inducted were Marcelo Balboa, John Harkes, Fernando Clavijo, and Hank Steinbrecher.

Just like last year, the Hall was filled to overflowing with soccer fans who had traveled from around the U.S. (and from Europe) to witness the induction of five men who helped shape the modern game here in the U.S. Everywhere you looked, you saw soccer royalty, from the heads of U.S. Soccer and MLS to folks like MetroStars GM Alexi Lalas and veteran broadcaster JP Dellacamara.

The Hall itself is wonderful, filled to the brim with soccer history and memorabilia from the game’s earliest days to its modern era. But perhaps the coolest thing is to see all the young kids roaming wide-eyed through the exhibits. They already know many of the names, and they remember the best goals and games.

If you’re a soccer fan, you really can’t do any better than Induction Weekend. From now on, many of the great MLS players and Men’s and Women’s National Team players will make up the inductee ranks, and each year promises to bring in a larger crowd. A crowd of soccer people. As Hall of Famer Hank Steinbrecher said today: “Our time has come.”

We stayed in Brewster, in a house my parents rented. It was close to Sheep’s Pond, where we went on the first sunny day. Massachusetts is filled with small lakes — called “ponds” by the locals — and some actual ponds, also called “ponds” by the locals. (The most famous of which is probably Walden Pond, favored site of Henry David Thoreau.)

Early in the vacation, Jen and I left Bernie with my folks and made our annual pilgrimage to my hometown of Lenox, Mass., to see James Taylor play his July 4 show at Tanglewood. Wonderful, as always. His band this year included Rochester’s own Steve Gadd on drums; Larry Goldings on piano and organ; Lou Marini of the Blues Brothers on sax; and the great Arnold McCuller on backing vocals. I also got to see my first fireworks over Stockbridge Bowl, an old Berkshires tradition.

One thing that really surprised me about the Cape was the food. It wasn’t very good. Particularly the seafood. From what I’ve read, the Cape has been so overfished that most of the seafood you get there is flash-frozen far away and shipped to the Cape, making it about as much a seafood paradise as, say, Pittsburgh. Plus, it’s incredibly overpriced. I went to the Kream -N- Kone for a fried clam platter with onion rings and fries. The price: $19.99. You’re welcome.

If you’re going, there’s at least one other thing to avoid — the ZooQuarium in Yarmouth. The name alone should have been a warning. And when we pulled up and discovered that it was housed in a huge concrete bunker, we should have turned tail and fled. But for some reason we plunked down $30 to get in to what was essentially a petting zoo with a sea lion. It was like paying $30 to go to Petco for the afternoon. And Bernie’s not a big fan of loud noises, so the main attraction — a sea lion show in a big concrete auditorium — sent him running back outside in about 10 seconds. Traveling tip: Avoid the ZooQuarium.

On the plus side, the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History was wonderful. The museum itself was closed when we went, but we walked the trails, which were beautiful. If the trails are any indication of the quality of the museum, it would be worth a visit. The John Wing trail (named after an early white settler of the area), wound across a marsh and a cranberry bog before crossing a small island and ending at a secluded beach. Absolutely gorgeous.

We also had fun in Plymouth, one of my old summer haunts. (And the town where I famously spent a week at the age of about 7 eating Ding Dongs and candy at my grandparents’ house, and returned from vacation as round as a basketball, much to my parents’ chagrin. They made me jog every night for a week or so, but natural growth eventually took care of the weight.) Bernie and Jen and I went to Plimoth Plantation, a living museum which houses a 17th-century settler village and a Native American village. My one comment about the Plantation is that I’d like more third-person interpretation in the settler village. It’s interesting to talk with actors playing the part of 17th-century pioneers, but when you ask them how they did a job without a drill and they respond “I know not of this tool,” it doesn’t really answer your question. Overall, though, a really interesting trip, even in the rain with a two-year-old.

We also went to the Mayflower II, a replica of the original that was built in the late 50s as a postwar sign of friendship between the UK and US. The boat sailed from the UK to the US when it was built, and it has sailed several times since. I remember going there as a kid and learning this deathless humor: April showers bring May flowers, but what do May flowers bring? Pilgrims. (I’ll be here all week. Try the Indian corn.)

When I used to go to Plimoth Plantation as a kid, I always fantasized about my family having arrived on the Mayflower, which of course they didn’t. In the intervening years, though, I discovered that my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather (that’s nine “greats”) Stephen Flanders came to Massachusetts in 1638. The Flanders line goes through my maternal grandfather Bernard (after whom my son is named) and my mom to me. At Plimoth Plantation, when I looked through many of the books on early settlers of Massachusetts, my family was in there. So that was pretty hip.

If you go to the Cape, make sure you go see some games in the Cape Cod Baseball League. One out of every six former college players in Major League Baseball played in the Cape League, which is the premier college summer league in the country. Jen and I read The Last, Best League by Jim Collins, which tells the story of the 2002 Chatham A’s. We went to a couple A’s games, and they were everything we’d imagined. Future stars, before all the hooplah. Don’t miss it. (To get a little taste, you can listen to Cape League games online.)