Hydrogen Junkbox: Two upcoming performances

Someone once asked me: do you play any instruments? 

I answered: My mouth. And also my hands to turn the dial of the radio.

Now, I can say: ukelele. And cookie drum. And stoop sale tambourine a bit too.

I am part of a marvelous poetry/music collective called Hydrogen Junkbox, alongside David Lawton and Starchilde. We aim to merge poetics and various forms of instrumentals to create something a little magical on stage.

 

I’m excited to announce two upcoming performances:

MONDAY FEBRUARY 20th: VOICES OF THE RESISTANCE @ LA MAMA  8:00-9:30PM

Poetry Electric Presents:
VOICES of the NEW RESISTANCE
Against the President on President’s Day!

TICKETS $10
@ LaMaMa (the downstairs space) located at : 66 E. 4TH STREET/ NYC
Beats of THE BEATBOX HOUSE (Kaila Mullady & crew)
along with all-star POETS & PERFORMANCE ARTISTS:
Liza Jesse Peterson, John S. Hall, Puma Perl, Alex Tatarsky, Jane LeCroy, Jeff Wright, Heide Hatry, Maria Muentes, Peter Spagnuolo, Susan Yung, Norman Stock, Bruce Pandolfo, Hydrogen Junkbox (Aimee Herman, David Lawton, & Starchild), Jimi Pantalon & friends

FRIDAY FEBRUARY 24TH : ICONS IN ASH: DEATH IN ART @CENTRAL BOOKING 6-8PM

CENTRAL BOOKING gallery  located at 21 Ludlow Street / NYC
ICONS IN ASH, DEATH IN ART group show, curated by Maddy Rosenberg and Heide Hatry
Book Party with Conversations, Readings, Spoken Word performances & Music

Performers include: Linda Weintraub, Sigrid Sarda,Jennifer Elster,  Heide Hatry, Daniella Blau, Jane LeCroy, Dusty Wright, Robert Brashear, Aimee Hermann and David Lawton
Exhibition: through Sunday, February 26
Artists include: Roberta Allen, Dianne Bowen, Theresa Byrnes, Kathline Carr, Jennifer Elster, Max Gimblett, Heide Hatry, Richard Humann, Gregg LeFevre, Julia Kissina, Kate Millett, Jim Peters, Herbert Pföstl, Michelle Ross, Sigrid Sarda, Carolee Schneemann, Aldo Tambellini, Linda Weintraub and Brenda Zlamany

 

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Kind of Like High School

first published by great weather for MEDIA

 

It is similar to when you are in high school. You are in the cafeteria and the smells of imposter pizza and imitation chicken nuggets lead you to almost forget about your deafening hunger. You’ve got your lunch and your over-stuffed backpack and your quintessential post-pubescent pimples and you’re ready to search out a table to sit at.

Usually, you’d be sitting with _______, but you are no longer speaking because of _________ or __________, but probably because ___________ said ______________.

So, you sit elsewhere and pretend that person who you used to call your best friend simply no longer exists. This friend who knows that you used to pick your nose and then eat your findings. Who knows that you had a crush on Judith Light from “Who’s the Boss”. Who knows that you sometimes forget to brush your teeth and hair. Who knows simply all of you (thus far).

You pretend to easily digest your lunch even though you ache. Even though this friend who was like part of you is like a stranger now.

It is like that.

Except this isn’t high school and the friend who held the other half of your BFF charm is your body. Yeah, it’s like that.

But here is the twist.

Cut to twelve years later or fifteen or twenty and you see this friend and you don’t know how to act. Can you just say hello after all this time? Do you pretend you didn’t spread rumors about each other and that most (if not all) were true?

Somewhere in my twenties I had a massive fight with my body and banned it from sitting at my lunch table. What I mean to say is: I ignored IT. Gave IT away to strangers. Handed IT over to people who didn’t even care enough to learn how many vowels are in my name. Dressed IT up, even though the lace was itchy and the push-up was too pushy.

It doesn’t matter why (that’s another month/another poem/another story), but what matters is I let go of IT. I stopped addressing IT, asking IT questions: Does this feel ok? Am I mispronouncing you? What is off limits?

After years of the silent treatment, I started to call my body QUEER. It felt slanted, but not exactly toward anything specific, just away from WOMAN. Away from GIRL. Away from SHE.

I covered up the parts I gave away. I ripped off my pronoun. I cut my hair. I grew out my hair. I asked my breasts to stop addressing me. I grew attracted to those who slanted too. I liked the ones who understood what it was like to be engaged in bouts of silence with their bodies. I liked not having to explain why I cried every time I was touched.

For me, I just wanted to erase everything I had done to IT. Hide the parts that had been broken into (by others and myself).

And then. One day—it happened to be a Saturday—I saw IT. We sort of made eye contact, but both immediately turned away. I almost didn’t recognize it; it had been so long.

*

When I was old enough to get a tattoo (18), my friend and I (who shared the same birthday) went to a small shop on route 9 in a strip mall in New Jersey, and got inked. She got a fairy on her lower back. I got the WOMAN sign.

I was not yet OUT (lesbian) but a FEMINIST and excited by my breasts which were finally growing on me. I wanted to look like her and all the other girls in my school.

Eighteen years later, I added to that woman sign because it didn’t quite speak the truth of how I saw myself. So, I added a MALE to the FEMALE and suddenly I felt a little better.

On this Saturday, where my body and I began to slowly break the silent treatment, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. So many years of reticence. I had forgotten how to approach it.

 

ME: It’s you, isn’t it?

MY BODY: Yeah.

ME: I…I’m not sure if an apology is—

MY BODY: There’s nothing to be sorry about.

ME: But I stopped talking to you.

MY BODY: And I stopped listening.

ME: Is it too late?

MY BODY: Why don’t we go for a walk?

ME: Can I…can I hold your hand?

MY BODY: As long as you don’t let go this time.