12.06.04

Weary of being me, being pissed, grumpy, weenie and dull, I accepted an invitation to go to Seattle yesterday from Binkie. I've been in the Pacific Northwest for almost three years--maybe it's time to go see the premier city of the region.

Treluv was doing a reading at the Frye Art Museum. The trip up was uneventful. Alternately grey, rainy, misty and sunny, we listened to a reading by Bukowski, circa 1980-81, and the latest by Tom Waits. The drive took less time than I expected. We pulled off onto James Street in the hilly uplands and circled until we found the museum.

I'd imagined Seattle to be flatter, and maybe we were in the only really lumpy section of town. It was clear enough to see the Space Needle and the new Seattle Dome as we came into town.

The gallery was interesting. Binkie and I abstained from the second half of the poets' readings (I'll tell you why in a bit).

There was a showing of Mark Ryden's work. I like his art. I'd only seen his stuff online or as prints. It was a treat to see the actual work. Neither online, nor prints can do the luminous quality of his pieces justice. I enjoy the macabre surrealism and iconography of his work, the pop-culture references (nb: Saint Barbie, Bjork, Lincoln, Jesus, Star Trek, etcetera), and how each piece is set into antique (or antique-appearing) frames.

There was another artist being shown, Henk Pender, whose work was large-scale and used bright colours. A number of paintings showed decaying airplanes in airplane graveyards--most of them with setting sun skies. There was a series of four that showed memories from his childhood. Normally, that'd be a happy thing, but not for Mr. Pender. He grew up in the Netherlands during World War II. He witnessed, with a child's confusion and fear, the German occupation of his country.

We also checked out some lighter pieces from the Munich School of the late 19th century. The wall of cows was good for a laugh. We stopped in awe in front of a landscape painting of a View of the Konigssee (sorry, I don't know how to make an umlaut over the O in Konig) by Daniel Somyogi. It's amazing to see three dimensions portrayed with mastery in two dimensions.

Back to the poetry...
Binkie and I stayed for the first half. I must admit, while some of the phrasing was lovely, and the imagery was evocative, it mostly seemed to be an exercise in white, Liberal guilt about the plight of the Native American. While I don't dispute that whites have treated (and continue to treat) Native Americans horribly, I am tired of all this patronizing breast-beating. One poet admitted, before she read a piece, that she was trying to come to terms with her white parts. One may as well try to come to terms with one's pinkie, or one's spleen. You are who you are.

I go with Sherman Alexie's viewpoint; there are three types of Indians. One, the hollow shell of an urban Indian--drunks and wastrels. Two, noble beings, with a higher line to spiritual wisdom than the whites. Or three, (and the one I think is most true), Indians are just like everyone else--foolish and wise, strong and weak, and as fucked up as anyone else.

The first half of the reading was interesting. It was strange (or maybe shows my inexperience at these sorts of things) but the poems to be read by each poet had been pre-picked. Treluv decided to change the programme a little, and read To Kill a Dirty Hippie. Binkie and I giggled in the audience, burying our faces in each other's shoulders to keep quiet. Binkie wondered if she should bring the car around, and leave the engine running. The looks on the other poets' faces were mingled surprise, laughter, and confusion.

As we left the museum, I said that I was trying to come to terms with my Irish part, and I had to (somehow) get my German and French parts on civil speaking terms, and the teensy Italian part kept on trying to surrender. Gads.

Then back to Stumptown.

We stopped in Centralia, WA and ate at some Mexican restaurant. We ate in the bar area, and the 80s music was...was...oh GAK! What was also unnerving was the tejano music playing in the bathrooms (all accordions, brass and guitars). Still worse was the one square meter where the music clashed and fought in the front reception area between los banos (I know, I know, there's no tilde over the N, see the umlaut reference above) and la cantina. Eesh.

Here's my confession; I knew far too many of the 1980s artists. Here I thought I didn't listen to pop music in the 80s. Lo, how the proud must hang their heads. I thank whatever powers that may be that no Kajagoogoo came on. Phew.

Made it back into Stumptown around 9-ish. I picked up Tora Torakku and, dreading going back to the house, decided to go the the Subterranean Beat. Got up, told my favourite stripper story, read a couple of things, sat back down. Later, I read something else (Pink Shirt) that I wrote. It was more rough last night, I worked on it today.

It was nice to get out of the house. It was nice to get away from Mater's intense need for hovering and control. *sigh* It was nice to be all intemellectual and artsy-fartsy an' crap.

Smoochies!

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