'A Tale of Two Summers' - Joshua Tree, California & Eyrarbakki, Iceland
Hello from Saga Residency (sagaresidency.org)
[Something new! You can now listen to this post if you don’t like to read!]
I spent most of this summer in the desert, which even for locals, is not for the faint of heart. The tourists stay away, the temperatures rise, and there is (allegedly) not much to do. But there have been quite a few open mics and I’ve been sharing my poetry — particularly a recently written piece called, “The Desert is Most Desert in the Summer.”
Last night, I found myself hiding from the ocean winds at an open mic in the 500 person coastal village of Eyrarbakki, Iceland which in many ways, is the opposite of the desert. And in many ways, is exactly the same. I realized the piece I’ve been reading had a second part, waiting to be written during my second summer. Here is the full piece, read for the first time last night.
I’m here in Eyrarbakki as part of this year’s Saga Residency. More on that soon… but for now, a poem to be enjoyed with your Sunday coffee or in your RV in line for Burning Man. )*(
A Tale of Two Summers
The desert is most desert in the summer, so it is not a time to escape.
“Strip down,” she said.
I scrub one layer, soak the next off with acetone. “More —” The sun does her damage, revealing skin darker and darker, the color of my ancestors, before I white-washed myself in brick buildings and on trays in cafeterias. Before I knew of black ice on the green. “Strip down.”
I have calluses on my hands and feet, dead skin around manicured nails, totems from a former life. “Strip down.”
Under my softness is callused, under my softness is rocks made of granite, shaped by nothing but the wind. “Strip down.” I have nothing left. The wind has her way with me. I cry resisting as she enters and tears me open — what did you hope to find here? There is only darkness. “Strip down.”
The desert is most desert in the summer and I have nothing left to give.
“Strip down.”
//
on a bench by the ocean, life is played out in miniature. I search for forms I recognize, but everything is covered in layers of memories in drying seaweed, and soft moss, the drying bones of feathers, and the brittle arms of a crab. the rocks here are soft, hollow, allowed to keep their air or - maybe trapped too quickly, silenced before they took their last breath. the wind here suggests ripples, that spread like fans, caressed open into the crinkle of the sea, out and away, it's careful not to bother the rocks. I sit alone and an old man asks: "Woman with the feather - what did you hope to find here?" Anything but darkness. If you make your nest out of seaweed, you never have to leave the ocean. If you make your nest out of seaweed, you don't have to say sorry when you're washed away. on a bench by the sea in eyrarbakki, life is played out in miniature. the hopes dashed by the winds in the desert are marooned here on the shores, waiting to be washed away, or buried under another generation's moss. impressions are watered down: three strangers on a journey unobstructed views behind a chainlink fence ghost stories of foremothers echoes of stomps, by a bench, on the sea. The desert is most desert in the summer, but I was invited to escape. to play out my life, on a bench, by the ocean. "Strip down." It is the first time I have stood before myself, naked.
I’ve been documenting my experience at Saga Residency most regularly on Instagram, but I’ll be sharing some long-form writing on it in the coming weeks here. Pop on over if you’re curious, or sit tight if it’s more of an everything in divine time typa-thing. Much love and many blessings. 💖