Once upon a time a workshop - Part 3 of 3 - The workshop

This was the second literary workshop I took part in my life. The first had been a Saturday morning, about writing science fiction narrative, years ago. The difference was that this one was in the United States, about poetry, a week long and the person who was giving it was Marge Piercy.

I was first introduced to her work through my studies of science fiction when I read about her most relevant works to that field: Woman on the Edge of Time published in 1976 and He, She and It, published in 1991. Her work is amazing and every essay, novel or poem I read by her made me feel more compelled to know more, to share them with friends. And it is no small feat: she has written and published more than 40 titles: 17 novels, 18 poem collections, a play and some non-fiction books. Three of her books were written in collaboration with her husband Ira Wood.

Last year, I interviewed Piercy because I am studying her two aforementioned novels. Out of this interview, I produced this poem. In December, she started receiving applications to the Poetry Workshop she gives. For you to apply you need to send her 5 poems. I had 5 poemsin English. They were raw, but I could include this poem I had written to her and it would be my chance of having her reading it. It would be an honor to be rejected by her. The thing is, some weeks after I had submitted the poems, she wrote me back and she said: “You are accepted to the workshop. Your poetry is too verbose and needs tightening and less rhetoric, but I like you and think you'd be a good addition to the mix. Plus unlike too many poets, you have a lot to say, and that matters to me. I look forward to working with you. I think I can help you.”

So, she talked about my weaknesses but she saw some potential in me. I stared at this message for hours, in disbelief, until I could finally answer her that it was great to have been accepted.

The following step was to create a portfolio with 15 poems, the five I had submitted and ten new ones. I didn’t have ten more good poems in English. So, I selected two and the other 8, I would translate from my poems in Portuguese. As I was helping my friend Taryn with translations from Portuguese to English, we helped each other and she gave a lot of hints and ideas. I wrote three new poems and there it was, a collection of fifteen poems.

When we started to introduce ourselves through Facebook, I got a little suspicious. Most of the people had been writing poetry for decades. They had been published. I felt my poems would be so amateurish and weak when put side by side with them. The mask would fall and they would see me as the academic playing poet I was. But if Piercy had believed in me, so should I.

The first day of class we finally met. I remember how nervous I was. I got there before everyone else. People came and the first activity was to introduce ourselves verbally and concisely. All the participants were so happy we only had 12 people in class. Normally workshops are for 40-50 participants. We were a heterogeneous group: one local, some people from the northeast of the US, two from San Francisco, Oregon, Glyn was Welsh but has lived in the US for a couple of decades and some of the girls were from Canada.

We had classes in the morning. The first day we talked about images. Piercy gave us some theory on aspects of poetry, then we read examples she had selected. It was good exercise for us to practice reading poems. Our assignment for next day was to write a poem selecting one image and working it out until the end. I wrote the first version of The crossing. The next day we talked about sounds. Our homework was to write a poem exploring the strategies of sound. That afternoon I had a conference with Marge.

The conferences were half an hour, and we would go to Marge’s house and she would comment on each of the 15 poems we had sent her. She gave me mostly ideas on changing words, cutting A LOT (remember the verbose?) and we talked a little bit about life and what was happening in Brazil. That gave me the idea to write the poem for the following day. People liked it. Here it is. 

By the middle of the week I had realized two things: the fellow poets were super friendly. I imagined they would have big egos and would patronize me. They did exactly the opposite.  

I understood how little of poetry I had read and how I was still afraid of it. That made me see all poetry as valid expression of something. Criticism was beyond me. I had no power to say it was bad poetry because if there was rhyme and verse, there was an intention to be poetic and I should praise the person for that. It was what made my editing process so difficult. It was high time I was not afraid anymore. I had to be able to select good poetry from bad poetry.  Doing that would not only make me a better poetry reader but a better writer. A critical sense was in the order of the day and the workshop was the chance I had to seize it.

There was the reading night and there were a lot of people to watch Marge and us. I calculated more than 70 people. I was the first to go. I read two of my poems: Truce in Troy and Recipe.

The next days we talked about titles (we had to give better titles to poems the others had written), line length and Thursday morning we started asking Marge a lot of questions and it was a Q&A session, basically. We talked about pattern poems (poems as list, image, recipe, dialog, etc).

One of the participants, the sweet Emily, wrote about her impressions on the workshop. You can find it here. 

What I learned from the experience was:

* Poetry is our experience in a different perspective. I should not fear it.

* As usual, it works better in groups. Joining a writer’s group was a hint she gave us

* Piercy is a wonderful person, who has had a rich and interesting life. I already knew that but it was just nice confirming in person.

* People can be very warm and friendly about my poetry even if I am from a country where English is not a mother language.

On the last day of classes, we had a party. Almost everyone was there. There were friends and family. The food was terrific, plenty to drink, talks about many things. I had a chance of sitting with Marge and talking to her about my research and the future. Glyn, one of the poets, who is Welsh, made an impersonation of the poet Dylan Thomas and the sun setting made it just a wonderful way to end that fabulous week.

Once upon a time a workshop - Part 2 of 3 - The family

When I arrived in Wellfleet, I knew I had two different types of adventures to live: one would be in the mornings, when I had the workshop classes. After the classes and except when we had special events connected to the workshop, we were free to do our homework assignments and explore the area. The weather was perfect for most of the week. On Tuesday, it got cold and there would be a party for the workshop people at the beach with a bonfire but because it was cold, windy and overcast I ended up not going but apparently they had the party.

As usual, when traveling, I tried to see what Couchsurfing.org had to offer me. Wellfleet was a small village and the probability I would find places offering a couch there was very low. Indeed, there were three girls and only one answered my request. With a maybe. So I rented a room and we kept in touch, so that she could tell me for sure whether or not she would be home by the time of the workshop. Her mother, who was unaware of what CS was, visited her and met some couchsurfers. She liked the project and what Odessa told her about me so she offered to host me.

Because the daughter, Odessa, was busy, working at the film festival, Renae, the mother, ended up spending most of the time with me. She helped me a lot and treated me as part of the family. We would have meals together. I cooked for them once. We talked a lot about the past, the future. We walked the dogs. We went to several beaches, to the ponds. We went to the movies to watch shorts of the festival, and to watch “The Great Gatsby”. We had ice cream, fries. She helped me find my magnets. She drove me to class and back home. She talked to her neighbor, who gently lent her cottage for me to stay for the whole week. We went to a yard sale, to Provincetown. She was one of the most amazing people I have ever met. I felt so happy when she was around. I was so happy when she accepted to go with me to the party we would have at the end of the workshop, as we were supposed to take family or friends. She felt like family. She made strawberry pie and had a good time talking to people about everything. I even inspired her to write a poem about a problem that has been afflicting the city. She taught me among other things that if I want to cultivate strawberries, cheap beer is always a must-have. Those drunk slugs thank you. Also, we faced mysteries together, like the strange “fauna” on the beach, some hollow whatever that we thought to be plants but moved! She is so easy to love and I wait for the day we are going to meet again.

Her family was just as extraordinary as she was. Chuck was funny and welcoming. Her 4 kids were so gorgeous and talented. They all played some kind of instrument, spoke other languages, had some type of artsy vein. Odessa was working a lot but we still had time to go places and her boyfriend Loren was also very interesting to talk to. His way to see the world was unique and I wanted to spend hours talking to him. He was the only one to endure waking up at 4.30 to see the sunrise on a Sunday. The girls were pretty tired. Nadia, one of the daughters, writes books for kids. I am sure I’m still going to ask her to sign one for me. She gave me a ride back from Provincetown, one of the nights I went there for some party. The bars were nice and I even learned some skateboarding with Loren (not downhill). 

Provincetown was, by the way, a very nice place to visit. People are very liberal, everywhere you look there is a rainbow flag and same-sex couples were walking hand in hand, friends were hanging out and flirting. The gay community there is massive. There is a boat inside the library and the building is very beautiful. you can just grab a book and sit by a window, staring at the blue sky and the Atlantic.

I felt happy all the time and it was the perfect way to complement my happiness of spending time with my favorite poet and novelist, Marge Piercy.

***
On my way back home, I still had one more night in Boston. I had talked to Will and he said it was OK for me to spend that night at his place again. We ended up going to a bar that night, listening to some live music and then we walked to a traditional ice cream place called J.P. Licks. The next morning, one more adventure before going to the airport. He drove me and his friend John to Dover, to a farm, where he had this volunteer work of controlling bird population by going to about 20 nests, counting the eggs, the hatchlings. It was much fun.

The Crossing

There were no ducks in Duckpond.

Only the clouds checking their hairdos

and make-up.

The sunrays lick my skin, skinny dipping.

One step and the water embraces my calves.

It is cold and dark and pulsating with life.

One more step, the discomfort

increases. Everyone else is in, but I am afraid of diving.

I move so fast, I am startled by

such boldness.

My head throbs and I feel the pressure in my ears

when water and silence try to penetrate them.

I swim almost touching the bottom

My eyes are open but I can barely see.

Stroke stroke breathe.

I look at the other side, it is calling to me.

Stroke stroke flip over.

My feet delve for the muddy soil, in vain.

On my own. Stroke stroke breathe.

You must keep going!

I reach the other side. I want to whoop and celebrate.

But I can just open my mouth, sounds fail me. So tired.

I let go of the piece of wood I had clung to.

Hugging my legs, I let myself float in this new womb.

In seconds, I stretch and move faster than thought.

I ought to go back.

Stroke stroke flip over. Look! Out of the blue, the sky is turning grey.

Thunder in the distance and I am sure

the sky is laughing at me.

Stroke stroke desperately.

I am almost back.

The sun had doubted me, so it hides behind the newly conjured

clouds. It does not see me feeling the slushy bottom, standing up

and gulping for air. I realize then I had found it!

Not on the other side

but exactly where I had started

the poem I was looking for.

(written for the workshop, Wellfleet, 2013) 

Jornada para Utopia: Dia 10 (versão de LVA)

Então eu desci e estava na estação de ônibus. Meu celular estava finalmente funcionando de novo. Eu estava de volta aos EUA, então podia ligar para o Brasil, podia usar de novo minha internet móvel. A primeira coisa, procurar locadora de automóvel em Boston. E procurei por uma na estação, não tinha nenhum. Eu vi que eu tinha que pegar o metrô e eu estaria a umas 5 estações de lá. Nada difícil comprar passagens das máquinas. Meia hora (era horário de pico) e eu já cheguei lá. Não sabia que em agências de aluguel de carro você sempre deve ter uma reserva, conseguir um sem reserva é questão de sorte. Imaginei que a pessoa apenas tinha que chegar lá e eles teriam carros disponíveis. Havia um carro grande, mas eu não queria começar a dirigir nos EUA em um carro grande. Um médio pra pequeno seria bem melhor pra mim. Eu tinha que esperar um tempo, mas eu tava bem adiantado, mesmo se eu dirigisse lentamente, podia esperar. Apareceu um carro. Dei para ela meus documentos. Eu achei que teria problemas por ter a carteira de motorista brasileira. Não, estava tudo bem. E então o problema. Eu tinha 3 cartões de crédito comigo, o brasileiro, o americano e o de dinheiro para viagem. O único que tinha limite ou fundos suficientes para a transação era o de dinheiro de viagem. Eu lhe dei esse e ela disse: “seu nome não está impresso no cartão”. Eu disse: “eu posso te mostrar o site e meu extrato”. Não. “Posso pagar com dinheiro?” Não. "Tem algum Wells Fargo aqui perto?" Eu faria uma transferência para minha conta americana. Com taxas e tudo, mas tudo bem. Só havia uma caixa eletrônica, há 80 quilômetros dali. Eu desisti. Vamos procurar alternativas. Tem um ônibus pra lá. Ele parte da... estação que eu estava.

Então eu voltei, mais meia hora e eu estava lá. De volta ao ponto zero. Pergunto lá e cá e tinha um ônibus saindo em meia hora. Então eu podia comer alguma coisa e enquanto eu estava comendo e lendo os folhetos da companhia de ônibus, o ônibus chegou. Eu estava tão feliz. Eu ainda chegaria a tempo. Subi e calculei que eu poderia chegar lá às 1h10 da tarde, apenas dez minutos atrasado. De qualquer forma, eu tinha que avisar a Marge que eu não estava de carro e iria me atrasar um pouco, calculando também o tempo de andar ou pegar um táxi do centro de Wellfleet até a casa dela. Como tinha pouquíssimos táxis em Gainesville, eu pensei que seria a mesma coisa em Wellfleet.

Mandei um e-mail para Marge dizendo a ela que eu talvez me atrasasse. Ela me perguntou porque e eu disse a ela que eu tive problemas para alugar o caro então, em vez de ir dirigindo, eu estava indo de ônibus. Ela disse que me pegaria na cidade então e ela me perguntou se eu já tinha almoçado e eu disse a ela que eu não estava com muita fome. Ela disse que o último ônibus voltando para Boston sairia às 2h00, então eu teria que conseguir fazer a entrevista com ela em 40 minutos, chegar lá e partir. E ela me encontraria no restaurante que tinha em frente ao ponto de ônibus. Fiquei tão frustrado. Eu vim de tão longe e estava tão animado com essa chance. 40 minutos?! Não me parecia justo.

Descia do ônibus onde ela me disse que eu deveria. Eu tinha que ligar pra ela para avisar que estava chegando lá. Quando desci uma garoa fina estava caindo. Havia também um pouco de vento, mas eu estava com a minha jaqueta, então tudo bem. Eu esperei 5 minutos mais ou menos e ela chegou, dirigindo seu Volvo preto.

Eu não sei que tipo de noções românticas eu tinha daquele  primeiro momento, mas eu apenas estendi minha mão e nos apresentamos oficialmente. Ela me mostrou o restaurante e nós entramos. Eu ainda não conseguia engolir o fato de eu ter que ir embora tão rapidamente. Vimos o cardápio e ela me recomendou a salada de peixe-espada. Eu não estava com fome, mas seria falta de educação e estupidez não comer. Ela ficou surpresa quando lhe disse que eu normalmente não tomo café (“Do Brasil e você não toma café?!”). Antes da comida chegar, eu abri meu computador e preparei o celular para gravar a entrevista. Ela disse que o plano era me levar pra casa dela e cozinhar algo, mas eu tinha apenas menos de uma hora... ela suspirou que esse não era um restaurante bom e que se eu tivesse mais tempo ela me levaria para o The Bookstore, um restaurante bem melhor.

Foi nesse momento que eu tomei uma decisão. "Eu não vim de tão longe para morrer na praia, mesmo que eu tenha que cometer um crime e dormir uma noite na cadeia, eu farei isso" "Não tem  cadeia aqui", ela respondeu. “Bom, está fora de temporada, eu vou pensar em um jeito.” E de fato, ela achou um jeito pra mim. Ela ligou para uma amiga, a Martha, que conseguiu me alojar em um pequeno e aconchegante chalé. Então, agora nós tínhamos muito tempo. E ela continuou me lembrando que ela se ela soubesse que teríamos mais tempo... ela não gostava mesmo daquele restaurante.

Perguntei para a Marge as questões que eu tinha em mente e no meu roteiro. Achei que foi uma entrevista maravilhosa. (Foi só depois de algumas semanas, quando eu estava a transcrevendo que percebi o quanto  ainda preciso aprender para fazer entrevistas. Sem perguntas com tanta coesão quando deveria, sem começo, meio e fim. Uma bagunça total. Ela foi gentil ao me pedir para reformular uma questão, e de novo, quando elas eram muito confusas ou desconcertantes).

Piercy tinha certeza em fazer a entrevista como uma conversa: ela estava sempre me perguntando alguma coisa e nós começamos a falar sobre o lugar que estávamos. Era minha primeira vez em Cape Cod e ela me deu uma perspectiva muito informativa. Ela concluiu dizendo que...

“Este é uma região costeira, você acha muitos lugares onde as pessoas vão para o mar, as pessoas têm uma grande tolerância porque os homens iam, para caçar baleias por um ano ou dois meses seguidos, as mulheres eram deixadas pra trás. Os homens ficavam apenas com os homens, também havia capitães negros, fora de Provincetown a escravidão ainda era legalizada. As embarcações de caça às baleias tinham uma tripulação sempre racialmente misturadas, assim como em Moby Dick. Alguns dos melhores arpoadores junto com os caiçaras, havia muita tolerância aqui desde o começo, com relação a diferentes estilos de vida e assim por diante. E então minhas perguntas começaram.

Depois do almoço, quando a entrevista tinha terminado, ainda tínhamos um tempo, eu só iria para o chalé depois das 4h00 e ela me levou pra conhecer as praias e a baía. Conversamos sobre o que estavam fazendo para a região e sobre a natureza em geral.

Como vocês podem ver, o dia não estava muito propício para nadar ou pra ficar andando na praia, então tínhamos que ficar no carro. Duas coisas nos impressionaram um pouco. A primeira foi quando estávamos dirigindo dentro do vilarejo. As ruas eram estreitas e tortuosas e quando estávamos dobrando uma esquina um caminhão gigante estava vindo na direção oposta. Estava invadindo parcialmente a nossa faixa da rua e não tinha lugar para escapar. A Marge congelou e o carro parou. Vi minha vida passar em segundos e o motorista do caminhão voltou para a outra faixa alguns segundos antes de bater. Respiramos fundo e continuamos. Logo vou contar a segunda coisa.

Teve um momento que me senti como um imbecil (havia mais desses do que eu pensei possível) quando estávamos na baia. Ela apontou para uma das casas e disse “O Howard Djinn morava aqui. Você o conhece?” Eu provavelmente respondi com minha cara de interrogação e ela estava espantada. “Você não conhece o famoso historiador? Escreveu História do Povo dos Estados Unidos?” Então eu percebi que ela estava falando de Howard Zinn, o famoso historiador, que tinha recentemente falecido. Eu já tinha lido alguns capítulos escritos por ele, mas se eu dissesse isso tenho certeza que iria soar como se eu tivesse tentando consertar a má impressão.

We still had some time, so she took me to her house and I would get to know her cats. First, we went around to see more of the region and we got a road which was a dead-end. When we got to the deadend, Marge had to make a u-turn and go back the same way. The road was narrow and she went outside it to the right and started turning. The thing is there was not enough space and to the left there was an escarpment. She was going toward it and I got tense but she realized we were not going to make it (it was deceiving, I would probably have done the same if I was driving). The car came to a halt and she had to do some steering before we could continue.


Ainda tínhamos algum tempo, então ela me levou para sua casa e eu conheceria os seus gatos. Primeiro demos umas voltas para ver a região e pegamos uma rua sem saída. Quando chegamos no fim da rua, Marge tinha que fazer um U e voltar no mesmo caminho. A rua era estreita e ela saiu dela para a direita e começou a virar. Não havia espaço e do lado esquerdo tinha uma encosta. Ela tava indo em direção a ela e fiquei tenso, mas ela percebeu que não conseguiríamos (parecia que dava, eu faria o mesmo se estivesse dirigindo). O carro parou bruscamente e ela teve que esterçar para podermos continuar.

Assim que chegamos à casa, eu estava feliz. Tinha muitos livros e estava quentinho. Fomos para o andar de cima, onde havia janelas grandes e uma sala de estar. Nos sentamos e ela disse que eu poderia fazer mais perguntas. Eu pensei, "Deus, ou o kosmos, estava me dando uma segunda chance de consertar as merdas que eu tinha feito na outra parte da entrevista."
Liguei o gravador do celular e fiz mais algumas perguntas. De novo, mais do que uma entrevista, ela me perguntou coisas também, ou encorajou que eu falasse também e estávamos na verdade conversando.

Conheci Xena e Efi. Ela chamou o Puk, mas ele não veio. Quando falei pra ela que adorava suco, ela desceu e foi pegar um copo de suco de oxicoco (nem sabia que era assim que dizia cranberry em português :O ) Ira Wood, o marido dela, chegou. Ele subiu e conversamos um pouco. Ele era a pessoa que ia me levar para a casa da Martha. Ele foi muito simpático e foi muito fácil ver como eles tinham se apaixonado.

Acho que a presença dele me fez me sentir mais confortável e eu comecei a falar pelos cotovelos sobre minha vida. Mas era hora de ir embora. Agradeci Marge e me desculpei novamente pela decisão retardatária de ter ficado mais tempo em Wellfleet. Ai se eu tivesse pensado nisso antes.

O Ira me levou até o chalé da Martha e tivemos mais chance de conversar. Foi lindo. Daí, ele me deixou lá e voltou pra casa. Quando subi, a Molly, parceira da Martha me mostrou o chalé. Foi só então que eu percebi que a câmera havia ficado no meu bolso e eu não tinha tirado nenhuma foto com a Marge. Nem no restaurante, nem na casa, em lugar nenhum. Tinha esquecido completamente e a única prova visual que tenho são as mãos dela no volante, na foto acima.

Me senti tão imbecil de ter feito aquilo. A câmera no meu bolso o tempo todo. Tinha o celular com uma câmera até melhor. Ainda assim, me senti extremamente feliz. Eu tinha sido capaz de fazer algo muito importante. Estou estudando a Piercy por um motivo e ela defende e representa uma série de valores com os quais me identifico. Rezei pra que aquela não fosse a última vez que eu a fosse encontrar (e pelos desenvolvimentos posteriores, aparentemente não será).

Essas são imagens do exterior do chalé que eu fiquei. O custo dele somado ao do ônibus foi menos do que eu gastaria com o aluguel do carro. Pude tomar um banho gostoso e fui para a cama porque estava frio. Comi o resto das guloseimas que tinha na mochila. Consegui uma rede aberta de wifi e baixei dois episódio de Fringe e um de Downton Abbey que tinha perdido. Depois de assistir liguei pro Brasil e fiquei conversando. Foi uma delícia dormir. Na manhã seguinte, acordei bem cedinho e peguei o primeiro ônibus, que passava às 7h00. Queria chegar cedo em Boston pra dar tempo de visitar mais coisas. Algumas fotos matutinas tiradas no ponto de ônibus.

PS - Mesmo antes da entrevista eu estava preparando um poema para a Marge e a situação me deu mais material para terminá-lo. Nunca imaginei que ela fosse ler, que dirá comentá-lo, e ela fez os dois.  =)
Para ler o poema, em inglês, clique aqui.

Journey to Utopia: Day Ten

So I got off and was in the bus station. My cellphone was finally working again. I was back to the US, so I could call Brazil, could use mobile internet agaon. The first thing, google a car rental in Boston. I looked for one in the station, there was none. I saw I had to take the subway and it would be about 5 stations away. Not difficult to buy tickets from the machines. Half an hour (it was morning rush hour) and I was there. I didn't know in car rental agencies you must always have a reservation, walk-in is a matter of luck. I imagined you just had to arrive there and they would have cars for you. There was a big one but I didn't want to start driving in the US in a big car. A medium to small would serve me much better. I had to wait for some time, but I had plenty of hours, so even if I drove slowly, I could wait. They had a car. I gave her my documents. I thought I would have problems for having the Brazilian license. No, that was fine. And then the problem. I had 3 credit cards with me, the Brazilian one, the American one and the travel money one. The only that had limit or funds enough for the transaction was the travel money. I gave it and she said: "your nome is not printed in the card." I said: "I can show you the webpage and my balance". No. "Can I pay cash?" No. Is there a Wells Fargo near here? I would make a transfer to my American account. Taxes and all, but OK. There was an ATM only, 50 miles away. I gave up. Let's google alternatives. There is a bus going there. It leaves from... the bus station I was in.

So I went back, more half an hour and there I was. Back to point zero. Ask here and there and there was a bus leaving in half an hour. So I could get something to eat and while I was eating there and reading the leaflets from the bus company, the bus arrived. I was so happy. I would still make it in time. I got on and learned I might get there at 1:10pm, just ten minutes late. Anyway, I had to inform Marge I was not driving there and I was going to be a bit late, calculating also time for walking or getting a cab from downtown to her house. As there were barely no cabs in Gainesville, I imagined it would be the same in Wellfleet.

I sent Marge an email telling her I might be a bit late. She asked me why and I told her I had a problem renting the car so instead of driving I was going by bus. She said she would pick me up at the city then and asked if I had already had lunch and I told her I was not really hungry. She said the last bus going back to Boston would leave at 2, so I would have to be able to interview her in 40 minutes from getting there to leaving. And she would meet me at the restaurant which was in front of the bus stop. I got so disappointed. I had come a long way and was so excited about this chance. 40 minutes? It didn't seem fair.

I got off the bus where she told me I should. I had called her to inform I was getting there. When I got off the bus a thin drizzle was coming down. There was also some wind but I had my jacket on, so I was fine. I waited for 5 minutes more or less and she arrived, driving her black Volvo.

I don't know what kind of romantic notions I had of that first moment, but I just extended my hand and we introduced ourselves officially. She showed me the restaurant and we went in. I still could not swallow the fact I would have to leave so soon. We saw the menu and she recommend me the swordfish salad. I was not hungry but thoght it would be impolite and stupid not to eat. She was surprised when I told her I didn't normally drink coffee ("From Brazil and you don't drink coffee?!"). Before the food came, I opened my computer and prepared the cellphone to record the interview. She said the plan was to take me to her house and cook something but as I had only less than one hour... she whispered that was not a good restaurant and if I had more time she would have taken me to The Bookstore, a much nicer restaurant.
It was at that moment I made up my mind. "I haven't come such a long way to die in the shore, so to speak. Even if I have to commit some crime and spend the night in jail, I'll do it." "There is no jail here!", she answered. "Well, it's out of season, I'll figure out a way." And in fact, she did find me a way. She called her friend Martha, who managed to put me up at a nice little cottage. So, now we had plenty of time. And she kept reminding me that if she knew we had more time...

I asked Marge the questions I had in mind and on my guideline. I thought it had been a wonderful interview. (It was only some weeks later, while I was transcribing it that I realized how much I still have to learn on how to make interviews. No followup questions when I should have, no beginning, middle and end. A complete mess. She was kind to even ask me to rephrase a question or two when they came out too baffling.)

Piercy was sure to make the interview into something more like a conversation: she was always asking me something and we started talking about the place where we were. It was my first time visiting Cape Cod and she gave me a very informative overview. She concluded by saying that…

"This is a sea-going place, you find many place where people go to the sea, people have a very wide tolerance because the men were gone, whaling for a year or two at a time, women only were left, the men were only with men, there were also black sea captains, out of Provincetown slavery was still legal. Always the whaling was racially mixed, just like in Moby Dick. A lot of the best harpoons with sea islanders, there was this tolerance from the beginning here, toward different lifestyles and so forth." And then my questions started.

After lunch, when the interview was over, we still had some time and she drove me around to see the cape and the beach. We talked about what they were doing to the region and about nature in general.

As you could see, the day was not so propitious for a swim or a day walking on the beach, so we had to stay in the car. There were two events that made some impression on us. The first was when we were driving within the village. The streets were narrow and winding and we were just turning around a corner and a huge truck was coming on the opposite direction. It was partly invading our side of the road and there was nowhere to escape. Marge froze and the car came to a halt. I saw my life passing by in seconds and the truck driver just went back to the other lane some seconds before hitting. We took a deep breath and keep on going. I'll soon tell you the second.

There was a moment I felt like a fool (they were more abundant than I had thought possible) when we were on the bay. She pointed to one of the houses and said "Howard Djinn used to live there. Do you know him?" I had probably answered with my question mark face and she was appalled. "You don't know the famous historian? People's History of the United States?" Then I realized she was talking about Howard Zinn, the famous historian, who had recently died. I had indeed read some chapters by him but if I said then I was sure it would sound as if I was just trying to fix the bad impression.

We still had some time, so she took me to her house and I would get to know her cats. First, we went around to see more of the region and we got a road which was a dead-end. When we got to the deadend, Marge had to make a u-turn and go back the same way. The road was narrow and she went outside it to the right and started turning. The thing is there was not enough space and to the left there was an escarpment. She was going toward it and I got tense but she realized we were not going to make it (it was deceiving, I would probably have done the same if I was driving). The car came to a halt and she had to do some steering before we could continue.

As I got to her house, I was so happy. There were a lot of books and it was warmer. We went upstairs and there were big windows and a living room. So we sat there and she said I could ask her more questions. I thought, "God, or the universe, was giving me a second chance to make wrongs right."
I turned on the cellphone recorder and asked her more questions. Again, more than an interview, she asked me things too, or encouraged that I talked and we were having a conversation.
I met Xena and Efi. She called Puk but he didn't come. When I told her I loved juice, she went downstairs to get me some cranberry juice. Ira Wood, her husband, arrived. He came upstairs and we talked for a little bit. He was the one who would take me to Martha's house. He was a very friendly person and it was very easy to see how they had fallen in love with each other.

I guess his presence made me feel more comfortable and I started to talk the hind legs off a donkey. It was time to go though. I thanked Marge for the time she had given me and apologized again for my late decision of staying. If only I had thought about that before. 

Ira took me to Martha's house and we had more chance of talking. It was lovely. Then, he left me there and went back home. When I got upstairs, Molly, Martha's partner showed me the cottage. It was only then, when I realized the camera was in my pocket but I hadn't taken any picture with Marge. Not in the restaurant, not in her house, nothing. I had completely forgotten, so the only visual proof I have is her hands on the wheels in the picture above.

I felt so stupid for that. The camera had been in my pocket all along. I had the cellphone, with maybe a better camera. Yet,  I felt extremely happy. I had been able to do something very important. I am studying Piercy for a reason and she defends and represents a lot of values I identify with. I prayed that it was not the last time we were meeting. (apparently, it isn't)

These are some images from the outside of the cottage I was in. The cost of it and the bus together would not be as much as I would have spent with the car rent. I could take a nice shower and get to bed as it was cold. I ate the rest of the snacks I had in my bag. I got wifi and downloaded the two Fringe episodes I had missed and one of Downton Abbey. I watched them and called Brazil. It was so wonderful to sleep. The next morning I woke up quite early as the first bus would come at 7am. I wanted to be in Boston early to try to visit some places. I would have only one day there so I had to take advantage of it. Some morning pictures on the bus stop.

PS - Even before the interview I was working on a poem for Marge and it gave me more material to end it. I never thought she would ever see it, or that she would comment on it. She did both... =)
To read the poem, click here.

When I fell in love with Marge Piercy

I remember very well
my life without you. It wasn't
that long ago.

Then you were part of
a course that changed the
course of my (then) coarse life.

And from a woman on the edge
of my life, one page at a time,
small changes. You were center. Light and wisdom:

You were my Luciente. And I got
angry. Blood in my eyes as I closed
the book and all else opened up.

(or so I thought. Had I known
there was so much yet to experience
if only I knew how much I didn't know)

(then and now)

And so I fell for you, incredibly going
higher instead of going down fast.
I was wrapped by a new type of hard loving.

How could I be sure, however,
of the ways you were showing me
what big girls are made of?

I was not a girl (though some would argue) and I am not
one still, but we have so much in common.
How do you explain a man with the longings of women?

Suddenly, you relinquised your (so we wish) heavenly,
abstract, virtual, untouchable position
of the writer, the name on the page, and allowed me to real-ize you.

I broke into your life. My soul has
reached to yours and touched it and I saw a cloud of butterflies
flying away home.

What a bluff. Even yet not ripe, quite unprepared
I wanted to go and see and smell and listen and talk.
I asked clumpsily. You answered gracefully.

You taught me about the wind, the oysters, the
Cape, you shared warmly, you made me certain why.
You showed me yourself - manual gear and cranberry juice.

I danced (not the eagle to sleept) in your living room.
I was in awe, exposed, you laughed out loud.
Ira came and I understood why again.

So I left, without any pictures of us
at that historic moment. (for me, at least, I have
them in my mind).

I felt happy and dumb at once for forgetting
and in doing so I felt I had just paid
the high cost of living (you live, you learn).

Antecipating, I looked ahead and the penny
dropped. No angel came to talk to me but I saw
my mission unfolding.

You helped me lay some brand
new cobblestones on the way I decided to
tread. In a way, a tap on the back and the go ahead.

I started (again and too late) sleeping with cats.
They made me warm and I cried when the Oboe went silent.
I remembered Efi and Xena, and all the cats I left in Brazil.

The details, however, have different colors now
The words I read sound more like your voice
And the future smells, sounds and looks

a bit more like hope.