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Category: Travel

Travel Diary: South By Southwest

Published 26 September 2012 by Jason Crane

(26 September 2012) JACKSON, MS — The course of my life is slowly starting to become clear. Well, not my entire life, but the next little while.

I arrived in Jackson on September 21. I’m staying with my friend Mike and his family. He’s one of the most important people in my life, but we’ve been out of touch for a few years, which was my fault. It was way past time to correct that mistake, and it’s turned out to be a wonderful reunion. Mike is one of those people whose advice is always good and whose support is unconditional. Folks like that are very rare.

On my way here last Friday, I found out that I was accepted into the residential program at Upaya Zen Center in Santa Fe, NM. I’m extremely excited to go there. I just got my plane ticket this morning — I’ll be going to New Mexico on October 16. Being in the residential program means following this schedule [PDF]. The residents serve as both students and staff, keeping the center in order for the folks who are there on retreat. I’m going for a one-month trial. If I’m a good fit for Upaya and if Upaya is a good fit for me, I’ll stay for three months, at the end of which time I can renew, leave, or decide to stay for a year.

Upaya has a chaplaincy program that I’m very interested in. Each spring, one resident gets to enter that program for free (rather than paying the regular tuition), so that’s one path I’m exploring.

I spent about 10 days in New York City before coming back down south. I stayed in the home of Jonathan Matz, a member of The Jazz Session and an extremely nice guy. We talked about music and life plans and cycling — and Jonathan let me grill him about Judaism, too.

I had lunch one afternoon with Scott Burton, who is one of the most open-minded, forward-thinking, creative people I know. I met him in Richmond, VA, during the tour and was happy to see him again in New York.

I also got to spend quite a bit of time with Kate, which was wonderful. Of course it was hard to leave, especially given how long it will be until we see each other again. I’m headed to Upaya, she’s headed to Japan in January. (You can follow her exploits at katemoser.wordpress.com.) We left in a good emotional place and without making any predictions or promises. But I’ve got a food feeling about our future.

I spent a lot of time with my sister, too. She’s been such a big help to me as everything has been collapsing, and I can’t thank her enough. (Thanks, Sis!)

I also did a bunch of interviews for The Jazz Session while I was in New York. Except for the first one, all the interviews were with women. The show has been way too male recently, so it was good to get back to some kind of balance. As it turned out, those were my final interviews, because I decided to end the show. My last interview was with Natalie Cressman. She was a really good guest, so it was nice to end on a high note. It’s very weird to think of not doing more jazz interviews, but I have a feeling I’ll be back with a different show in the future.

One of the people I interviewed was Nadje Noordhuis, a trumpet player whose new, self-titled album is one of my favorites of 2012. I went to see her the night before our chat at Dizzy’s Club Corn Syrup, playing with the DIVA Jazz Orchestra and Marlena Shaw. Marlena Shaw sure knows how to grab and hold an audience.

I also got a chance, on the same night, to see my pals in The Respect Sextet play at Le Poisson Rouge and Anat Cohen play at the Village Vanguard. Both were excellent.

I wrote some poems, too:

Then it was back on a Greyhound bus for a quick 29-hour ride from Manattan to Jackson, with transfers in Baltimore, Richmond (VA) and Atlanta. Tomorrow night I’m leaving Jackson and going to Auburn, Alabama, for a couple weeks to see all the lovely people I met on my tour. I had planned to stay there for a couple months, but then my application was accepted at Upaya.

A few weeks ago I had no idea what was going to happen to me or how I was going to keep the show going or where I was going to live. Now I have some clarity on those points and a feeling of at least some control over my life. It’s a good feeling.

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POEM: eat at joe’s

Published 10 June 2012 by Jason Crane

eat at joe’s

it’s a line I remember from MAD magazine
not the ones my parents used to stuff
into my stocking each christmas morning
but the older books I found in comic shops
filled with potztrebies and furshlingers
smilin’ melvin and tarzan parodies
references my 8- or 9- or 10-year-old brain
had no frame for (I laughed anyway)
I finally made it! my first joe’s
it’s perfect, too: use-worn wooden tables
a friendly waiter complete with
stringy mustache and soiled apron
Karen keeps my plastic cup
filled to the brim with sweet tea
everybody asks if I’m a a thru-hiker
because of the big backpack
they all seem a bit disappointed
when I tell them I came on a bus
for a fleeting moment I think
I’ll leave town early
walk to charlottesville
then my veggie burger arrives
if one more beautiful woman walks in here
I may never leave
spend my days in a booth
writing love poems
my nights in william byrd park
under the warm virginia sky

10 June 2012
Richmond, VA

(For more about Joe’s Inn, read yesterday’s tour diary.)

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POEM: leaving York

Published 5 June 2012 by Jason Crane

leaving York

the mullet man from Columbia
in the camo hat
points proudly at the hospital
“that right there is where I was born”
across the aisle another Carolinian
says he was born in Delaware
he didn’t pass his trucker test
so he’s headed back home
camo hat is going home, too
no GED, no truck license means
you may have a friend in Pennsylvania
but you don’t have a job
he’s got two prospects
lined up back home:
climbing cell towers
for three grand a week
or working as an auto mechanic
thinks he’ll take the garage job
’cause he has neck problems
the highway parallels a river
camo hat spots a campsite
where his granddad took him fishing
where he caught his first fish
the man across the aisle says
“if I could stay by a lake
I could just fish, just fish”

5 June 2012
on a bus between York PA and Baltimore MD

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The Bus Of The Damned, A Twitter Epic

Published 16 October 2011 by Jason Crane

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.
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POEM: The Blues

Published 14 January 2011 by Jason Crane

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

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stone #13

Published 13 January 2011 by Jason Crane

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

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VIDEO POEM: maple leaf

Published 28 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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.

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POEM: Ah, Basho, who were you really?

Published 12 December 2010 by Jason Crane

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.

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POEM: Pennsylvania or bust (November Poem-A-Day 14)

Published 14 November 2010 by Jason Crane

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

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POEM: what we choose to remember

Published 1 October 2010 by Jason Crane

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

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Walt Franklin at Pine Hollow Arboretum

Published 26 September 2010 by Jason Crane

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.

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POEM: Water Song

Published 24 September 2010 by Jason Crane

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?

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POEM: On the Tennessee River

Published 23 September 2010 by Jason Crane

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

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POEM: Lights, Camera, Action!

Published 18 September 2010 by Jason Crane

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.”

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