I have really been enjoying my holiday season. It is so great to have my parents here. I think this knitt
ing thing could be getting rediculous. I can't stop! It's a great way to pass time on the train, and at rehearsals, but It is threatening to consume me. I am in the process of making my dad a scarf. I was so relieved when he admitted to me that although the red and blue chenile scarf was lovely and well-made, that he would rather have something more conservative. I found some great cashmereno yarn that I am in the process of knitting up as we speak. I should be done by the new year. I want to pick up the stitches on the side and knit a border so it will curl less, but I'm not sure how to do this yet.
In other news. Rehearsals are going great. We are in that newly off-book stage where nobody's sure what comes next, and the pacing goes to hell, but I'm starting to see it come together. When we come back from New Years we start doing full runs of the show. I can't wait!
The tourists are in Manhattan in full force. Eighth avenue is slower than (pardon the phrase) Christmas, and although I'm glad that people enjoy this great city and bring us all of the commerce, I'm ready for everyone to go home. I am getting really tired of tripping over people who can't figure out which way is uptown and which way is down. I hate weaving through mobs who don't understand that if there's no traffic coming you ignore the little red hand. Times Square sucks anyway, but I have to get off of the subway there, and there are sooooo many people right now it's sickening. I will not be enduring The New Year's Eve Madness. I will be safe at home with puppies, parents, and knitting enjoying a tourist free night. That's my rant.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Tree Panic
So here we are at the eleventh hour of Christmas preparations, and everyone else is panicking about gifts. I actually thought ahead about the gifts for my immediate family and have had those done. I had planned to set my various Christmas trinkets out and clean the house today. What I discovered this morning is that I NEEDED a tree. I realized that I couldn't possibly cope without having one. It turned out today was the day to go buy a tree and decor. Everything at Michael's was half off or better. I got a tree with the lights all woven in. I have always been a big fan of the family style hodge podge tree, but since I don't have the family ornament collection here I went with a theme tree. I did the tree in purple and white with red and gold accents. I covered it in Poinsettas in all 4 colors, and gold tassles with assorted balls. I found a purple and white angel for the top. I LOVE IT! Thank goodness for the tree. I hope you all have a very MERRY CHRISTMAS! I will write again soon.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Mistletoe and High Alert
Well my display isn't updating, but we are officially at nation wide terror alert level high. I find myself dreaming of explosions in the Lincoln Tunnel. I can tell that this morning I will be white knuckling it across the GW Bridge. I am officially terrorized. I'm not sure if this is because of terrorists or because we have such a vigilant warning system. Last night as I was driving home from Manhattan I kept wandering through scenarios of what would happen if my parents plane had been the one to be ripped from the sky. I imagined getting the kind of phone call that everyone dreads. I was truly relieved to get the call from them to say they were safely on the ground.
I love this city. I can't explain the way it felt to stand on the Long Island Sound, and feel the rumble when those towers fell. My nose still remembers the smell of that tragedy as it hung in the air, and the sight of the fire-fighter next door trudging home for many nights in his dress uniform. I hate the terror alert system. What am I going to do? Know that it could get me? Great! I get it. So in the midst of our Christmas panic, the roots are not just last minute shipping. . .Are those presents ticking?
I love this city. I can't explain the way it felt to stand on the Long Island Sound, and feel the rumble when those towers fell. My nose still remembers the smell of that tragedy as it hung in the air, and the sight of the fire-fighter next door trudging home for many nights in his dress uniform. I hate the terror alert system. What am I going to do? Know that it could get me? Great! I get it. So in the midst of our Christmas panic, the roots are not just last minute shipping. . .Are those presents ticking?
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Operation Open Up
I would consider myself to be an open and emotionally centered guy. Especially for a guy, and as long as your not trying to date me. After all, my career choice is about displaying the emotional contents of my soul publicly in a restricted scenario. (ACTING) I have always felt like I had a good instrument and methodology for accessing the marrow of my emotions and using them in my work. I have either been deluding myself for several years, or I blew the top off of this yesterday. I had a real breakthrough in class.
For those of you who do not know, and didn't figure it out in the last paragraph, I am an actor. I take a musical Interpretation class on Wednesdays with a fabulous woman named Kimberly Vaughn. This is a class that deals with the acting and performance of musical material. I have had some real trouble when it comes to singing. I get super nervous, and therfore not very good. There are many theories among acting fellows that suggest singing requires the most open vessel, namely people. One draws energy from the earth, pushing it out from their center, and using it to vibrate through the throat chakras in order to make a sound. This is a pretty intense energy flow if you think about it. If we are trying to block any of the impulse or emotion that is coming up with that energy, we begin to block the sound, and our vocal production goes down the tubes. Not to mention our storytelling. I had been doing some decent story telling in class so far, but my sound had not been up to what I thought it could be. Yesterday I learned that this is because I was limiting the emotion I allowed to come through.
Our teacher uses a grounding (or centering) method that uses principals of bio-energetics. The method is standing on a dowel with a pressure point in your foot, and leaning into it. Then you begin to rlease vocally saying "GET AWAY! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!" On the other side the release is about taking space and time and control so you say "It's MIne!" Yesterday I found that the pushing out of the negativity was a particular release. When I switched sides and began to take the good energy, I was doing the actions, but I was not saying that IT IS MINE. My teacher pointed this out and I began to focus on really claiming my space and positivity. As I did this, energy began to tingle up my feet and legs. My center got warm, and my whole back released and fell into alignment very comfortably. I felt more present, aware and open than I had in my whole life.
I began to perform the piece I was working on this week, and I found that my whole instrument was so free and open that the work was no longer work. When I stopped and recieved corrections they did not feel like attacks, and I knew instantly how to manipulate the work. My second run of the song was clear, honest, and my voice sounded like honey. It was exactly what I had been trying to do with this piece for weeks. My teacher made it a point to show me that it was the full spectrum of emotions that gave this piece the color it had just been endowed with. She said "It's ok to be ugly sometimes. Not all of our emotions are gentle and pleasing." This seemed so obvious, and yet the action of recieving permission for my darker emotions in a state of such openness made me cry. I usually would stop this crying instantly in front of a class of people. I decided to let it out. There was a flood of tears behind a dam I have built upon for a long time. The tears came, and went quickly, and when they were gone I realized that the dam was much more intense than what it was containing.
So I learned:
I am not as open as I would like to think I am.
There is a well of things that I do not share because I don't think that they are inspiring or worthy.
The fear of feelings is much worse than the actual feelings.
&
Once I arrive for the work. The work begins.
The true challenge is how to remain open and vulnerable like this. Ah the quest of an actor. For now I'm going to have more coffee and glow about my breakthrough.
For those of you who do not know, and didn't figure it out in the last paragraph, I am an actor. I take a musical Interpretation class on Wednesdays with a fabulous woman named Kimberly Vaughn. This is a class that deals with the acting and performance of musical material. I have had some real trouble when it comes to singing. I get super nervous, and therfore not very good. There are many theories among acting fellows that suggest singing requires the most open vessel, namely people. One draws energy from the earth, pushing it out from their center, and using it to vibrate through the throat chakras in order to make a sound. This is a pretty intense energy flow if you think about it. If we are trying to block any of the impulse or emotion that is coming up with that energy, we begin to block the sound, and our vocal production goes down the tubes. Not to mention our storytelling. I had been doing some decent story telling in class so far, but my sound had not been up to what I thought it could be. Yesterday I learned that this is because I was limiting the emotion I allowed to come through.
Our teacher uses a grounding (or centering) method that uses principals of bio-energetics. The method is standing on a dowel with a pressure point in your foot, and leaning into it. Then you begin to rlease vocally saying "GET AWAY! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!" On the other side the release is about taking space and time and control so you say "It's MIne!" Yesterday I found that the pushing out of the negativity was a particular release. When I switched sides and began to take the good energy, I was doing the actions, but I was not saying that IT IS MINE. My teacher pointed this out and I began to focus on really claiming my space and positivity. As I did this, energy began to tingle up my feet and legs. My center got warm, and my whole back released and fell into alignment very comfortably. I felt more present, aware and open than I had in my whole life.
I began to perform the piece I was working on this week, and I found that my whole instrument was so free and open that the work was no longer work. When I stopped and recieved corrections they did not feel like attacks, and I knew instantly how to manipulate the work. My second run of the song was clear, honest, and my voice sounded like honey. It was exactly what I had been trying to do with this piece for weeks. My teacher made it a point to show me that it was the full spectrum of emotions that gave this piece the color it had just been endowed with. She said "It's ok to be ugly sometimes. Not all of our emotions are gentle and pleasing." This seemed so obvious, and yet the action of recieving permission for my darker emotions in a state of such openness made me cry. I usually would stop this crying instantly in front of a class of people. I decided to let it out. There was a flood of tears behind a dam I have built upon for a long time. The tears came, and went quickly, and when they were gone I realized that the dam was much more intense than what it was containing.
So I learned:
I am not as open as I would like to think I am.
There is a well of things that I do not share because I don't think that they are inspiring or worthy.
The fear of feelings is much worse than the actual feelings.
&
Once I arrive for the work. The work begins.
The true challenge is how to remain open and vulnerable like this. Ah the quest of an actor. For now I'm going to have more coffee and glow about my breakthrough.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Precipitation
OK! I understand that the sky can only hold so much water before it must be returned to the earth. But for crying out loud could it please find a front that's well below freezing to drop it through? I woke up to freezing rain pouring down. I could hardly rip myself from the comfort of my bed. How does one make a rainy morning appealing? The puppies have no idea why it's rainig. They hate it. Soon I will trudge out into the wetness to battle a wet dirty city. It's Christmas time in the city?
Christmas Songs
It has officially begun. The Christmas spirit has worked its way into my heart and brain and is pouring out of my mouth. This happens to me every year, and I kind of love it. I am singing Christmas Songs. In the shower, on the street, in every train car I visit, and everywhere else I go, I am caroling at the top of my lungs to all the people not listening. My roomate says he hates Christmas songs, but I love them.
Today I was singing on the train platform with my eyes closed, when I opened them there was a little asian-american woman standing there watching and listening. It startled me a little when I opened my eyes. She asked me to keep singing. I started singing "Oh Come, Oh Come Emanuel" I was instantly transported back to high school. . .
Junior Year. I was in a jazz choir called Northern Lights, and we performed Christmas tunes all over Denver. There was one night each year that we performed at the country club in my housing development. I remember standing in the dining room singing 'Emanuel' on a cold winter night. The fire was crackling. The room was filled with well dressed smiling families. The windows had little frosted curves at the corners of the mullions and muttons, and the whole room was done in garland, holly and mistle-toe. I was singing with 19 people I loved very much. I remember feeling at that moment as though life would never get any better than that. As if that was the quintessential Christmasy moment. In my mind that moment still feels like warmth and comfort resting against cold snow. I can still smell pine logs burning, and hot apple cider. I love that memory.
When I opened my eyes the woman had a tear in hers. She said "Thanks, that made me feel like Christmas." I smiled and we got on the train. I guess there really is something to the idea of the Christmas spirit. I've found it twice now, and the experiences felt the same though they couldn't be more different.
Today I was singing on the train platform with my eyes closed, when I opened them there was a little asian-american woman standing there watching and listening. It startled me a little when I opened my eyes. She asked me to keep singing. I started singing "Oh Come, Oh Come Emanuel" I was instantly transported back to high school. . .
Junior Year. I was in a jazz choir called Northern Lights, and we performed Christmas tunes all over Denver. There was one night each year that we performed at the country club in my housing development. I remember standing in the dining room singing 'Emanuel' on a cold winter night. The fire was crackling. The room was filled with well dressed smiling families. The windows had little frosted curves at the corners of the mullions and muttons, and the whole room was done in garland, holly and mistle-toe. I was singing with 19 people I loved very much. I remember feeling at that moment as though life would never get any better than that. As if that was the quintessential Christmasy moment. In my mind that moment still feels like warmth and comfort resting against cold snow. I can still smell pine logs burning, and hot apple cider. I love that memory.
When I opened my eyes the woman had a tear in hers. She said "Thanks, that made me feel like Christmas." I smiled and we got on the train. I guess there really is something to the idea of the Christmas spirit. I've found it twice now, and the experiences felt the same though they couldn't be more different.
Monday, December 15, 2003
I'm Back!!!
I have been out of the habit of posting for almost a week now. I'm so sorry.
It snowed this morning. I woke up to find a blizzard surrounding my world with white love. The dogs and I went to play for a minute, but they got cold and we came in for treats and coffee. I settled in to a quiet morning of knitting and coffee. I also wrote a letter of reccomendation for my good friend Maryanne. I was quite worried about saying the right things, but it is so easy to write about the merrits of such a talented human being. The knitting is something I was able to take up this week with the aid of a few books. I love it. It may be a passing craze, but right now, my head is full of scarfs, hats, and eventual sweaters. So my Sunday started off absolutely lovely. Then the snow stopped. There were about six inches on the ground.
After about 20 minutes of clear skies and glistening white wonderland. The temperature broke freezing, and it began to rain. It began to pour. The heavens tore open and dumped freezing sheets of water. All of that beautiful snow became deep layers of mucky slush. This was about the time I had to leave for Manhattan. All of the Mass Transit System relies on so much walking. I usually see this as a good thing. I arrived at rehearsal with soggy pants, wet socks, drippy boots, and a pile of wet winter gear. Rehearsal was good, but the trip back was even wetter and colder than the trip there. By the time I got home, my soul felt cold and soggy.
The good news is I was home in time to watch Angels in America: Part II on HBO West. I'm so impressed with Mike Nichols vision for this project. Tony Kushner is a genius. Meryl Streep is versatil and amazing. I think Patrick Wilson (Joe) is amazing and beautiful at that, and Jeffrey Wright blows my mind. Basically I loved everything about it. What a heartbreaking, beautiful story!!!!
I'm starting to feel panicky about the impending Holiday, but I'm looking forward to it too. I hope we get more snow, and less rain.
It snowed this morning. I woke up to find a blizzard surrounding my world with white love. The dogs and I went to play for a minute, but they got cold and we came in for treats and coffee. I settled in to a quiet morning of knitting and coffee. I also wrote a letter of reccomendation for my good friend Maryanne. I was quite worried about saying the right things, but it is so easy to write about the merrits of such a talented human being. The knitting is something I was able to take up this week with the aid of a few books. I love it. It may be a passing craze, but right now, my head is full of scarfs, hats, and eventual sweaters. So my Sunday started off absolutely lovely. Then the snow stopped. There were about six inches on the ground.
After about 20 minutes of clear skies and glistening white wonderland. The temperature broke freezing, and it began to rain. It began to pour. The heavens tore open and dumped freezing sheets of water. All of that beautiful snow became deep layers of mucky slush. This was about the time I had to leave for Manhattan. All of the Mass Transit System relies on so much walking. I usually see this as a good thing. I arrived at rehearsal with soggy pants, wet socks, drippy boots, and a pile of wet winter gear. Rehearsal was good, but the trip back was even wetter and colder than the trip there. By the time I got home, my soul felt cold and soggy.
The good news is I was home in time to watch Angels in America: Part II on HBO West. I'm so impressed with Mike Nichols vision for this project. Tony Kushner is a genius. Meryl Streep is versatil and amazing. I think Patrick Wilson (Joe) is amazing and beautiful at that, and Jeffrey Wright blows my mind. Basically I loved everything about it. What a heartbreaking, beautiful story!!!!
I'm starting to feel panicky about the impending Holiday, but I'm looking forward to it too. I hope we get more snow, and less rain.
Monday, December 08, 2003
Saturday, December 06, 2003
Snow Day
It snowed all day! I wrapped the pups in their polar fleece and took them out several times. Their collective reaction to the snow goes something like this: "SNOW! SNOW! SNOw! SNoh!? S-NO! snOH MY GOD IT"S COLD. . .Let's go inside and have a treat!" Then five minutes later a scratch at my leg because they want to go see the white stuff again. During intermediate botherings I open the door to the deck. One puppy at a time they bounce out into the drifts and take about three leaps before their bellies get cold, they run inside, and shake the snow all over the bed. Suddenly my excitement for the snow feigns as quickly as theirs.
Meanwhile I spent the day snowed in rehearsing for my Babar show this weekend. It is so hard to find motivation to work in the middle of your own living room. What with electronics and puppies and food. I feel like I know the show pretty well, but I wish I had worked a little harder. I got to talk to three of my good friends tonight, all of whom write brilliant things. All in all, it was a good night.
For those of you who followed some of my earlier posts about the student I'm tutoring, I'm afraid I'm growing less optimistic. Our sessions together become more like cruel and unusual punishment each time we meet. She doesn't want to work. I don't want to fight. The dogs don't want to be a distraction any more, and her guardians don't want to discuss our sessions with me at all. I keep trying to get a moment with the girl's parents to discuss a string of things I notice, but they refuse to have a conversation away from her ears. The result is that any difficulties I try to adress become another excuse to yell at the poor girl. I think perhaps if they would take an interest other than anger, and start piloting this young girls education in a real way, there might be somewhere to go. Since this isn't the case, I have come to represent an extension of the angry parents, and one more thing for her to fail with. On one hand I feel like structuring our sessions around being an ally to this little girl, and see what work she gets done out of actual desire might be helpful to her; but, this begins to tread more counseling territory than tutoring, and while I'm quite intuitive, I'm simply not qualified. On the other hand, If I can't find a point at which she wants to learn, and foster an environment where she works for herself, all of the work we do becomes a means to an end. The end. She will do anything to make it stop, and I feel as if no real information is capable of penetrating. What I really want to do is grab her parents and shake the shit out of them until they realize that yelling is not working. I think that is probably out of the question. Any-hoodle. . .
The white shroud has made all seem peaceful and calm around here, and I am going to curl up in front of the great mind-sucking box. Sweet Dreams all!
Meanwhile I spent the day snowed in rehearsing for my Babar show this weekend. It is so hard to find motivation to work in the middle of your own living room. What with electronics and puppies and food. I feel like I know the show pretty well, but I wish I had worked a little harder. I got to talk to three of my good friends tonight, all of whom write brilliant things. All in all, it was a good night.
For those of you who followed some of my earlier posts about the student I'm tutoring, I'm afraid I'm growing less optimistic. Our sessions together become more like cruel and unusual punishment each time we meet. She doesn't want to work. I don't want to fight. The dogs don't want to be a distraction any more, and her guardians don't want to discuss our sessions with me at all. I keep trying to get a moment with the girl's parents to discuss a string of things I notice, but they refuse to have a conversation away from her ears. The result is that any difficulties I try to adress become another excuse to yell at the poor girl. I think perhaps if they would take an interest other than anger, and start piloting this young girls education in a real way, there might be somewhere to go. Since this isn't the case, I have come to represent an extension of the angry parents, and one more thing for her to fail with. On one hand I feel like structuring our sessions around being an ally to this little girl, and see what work she gets done out of actual desire might be helpful to her; but, this begins to tread more counseling territory than tutoring, and while I'm quite intuitive, I'm simply not qualified. On the other hand, If I can't find a point at which she wants to learn, and foster an environment where she works for herself, all of the work we do becomes a means to an end. The end. She will do anything to make it stop, and I feel as if no real information is capable of penetrating. What I really want to do is grab her parents and shake the shit out of them until they realize that yelling is not working. I think that is probably out of the question. Any-hoodle. . .
The white shroud has made all seem peaceful and calm around here, and I am going to curl up in front of the great mind-sucking box. Sweet Dreams all!
Friday, December 05, 2003
Lady Winter
It's cold! Winter has made a grand entrance and she is standing in the sky fussing about herself. She throws her head back and sighs with all of the indignation one would expect from a woman who has not been taken out in nine months. She tosses her silver tresses to and fro and streaks the sky with mysterious glints of white. Father Day and Mother Night Illuminate them in vibrant reds as they dance the dusk. Meanwhile Winter's footmen begin to prepare the petals of the snow-flowers which grow about her when she sleeps, that they may be thrown before her feet as she walks.
In the lower spheres, hats and gloves polka dot the sidewalks. Cities fill with bundled people bustling quickly from building to building. Gone are the days of skin-bare boys and girls playing on the piers. We have moved inside for spiced apple cider and sweet breads. We harvest the stores and prepare for eminent snow fall.
Lady Winter laughs sweetly to see us shiver.
In the lower spheres, hats and gloves polka dot the sidewalks. Cities fill with bundled people bustling quickly from building to building. Gone are the days of skin-bare boys and girls playing on the piers. We have moved inside for spiced apple cider and sweet breads. We harvest the stores and prepare for eminent snow fall.
Lady Winter laughs sweetly to see us shiver.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Catch Up
Silence has been restored to my living room. ahhhhhhh.
I had a great visit with my parents while they were here. They scrambled their stuff together this morning and shipped out. They will be returning in a few weeks for the Christmas thing, but I am relieved to have my rhythms back again.
What a crazy week it's been already. I am officially rehearsing for Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love. The script is great. The cast is amazing. I really can't wait to see what the final product is like. I think this may be the most gritty acting project I've taken on. I directed some grit in college, but was never really cast in any. I get to show my rump on stage (how exciting.)
Meanwhile the post I wrote a few weeks ago That Demon Alcohol is turning into a larger project. I keep pouring out pages about a character named Mark. I suppose Mark is an opportunity to say things I might not be ready to say as WT. I also have an idea cooking for a political satire cabaret. The cabaret is a bastardization of The Pied Piper. I feel like this week will be focused on that. I have been bouncing the idea off of many people in my life, and they all seem to think it is a good one. Political satire is awfully time sensitive, so I'd better get cooking. If only the cursor in my word processor would stop laughing at me.
I am studying hard for my first performance of Babar the Elephant this Sunday. The show is not as well constructed as Peter and the Wolf, but it seems like a lot of fun anyway. I think performing for children is the coolest thing ever. Childrens' imaginations are so pliable. They haven't learned to ask so many limiting questions, so you hold up your arm and you have a trunk. It's that simple.
I haven't been able to sit doen and write posts each day like I like to, but this is a start. Look for some of the more poetic musings I've been to busy to type in the next couple of days.
I had a great visit with my parents while they were here. They scrambled their stuff together this morning and shipped out. They will be returning in a few weeks for the Christmas thing, but I am relieved to have my rhythms back again.
What a crazy week it's been already. I am officially rehearsing for Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love. The script is great. The cast is amazing. I really can't wait to see what the final product is like. I think this may be the most gritty acting project I've taken on. I directed some grit in college, but was never really cast in any. I get to show my rump on stage (how exciting.)
Meanwhile the post I wrote a few weeks ago That Demon Alcohol is turning into a larger project. I keep pouring out pages about a character named Mark. I suppose Mark is an opportunity to say things I might not be ready to say as WT. I also have an idea cooking for a political satire cabaret. The cabaret is a bastardization of The Pied Piper. I feel like this week will be focused on that. I have been bouncing the idea off of many people in my life, and they all seem to think it is a good one. Political satire is awfully time sensitive, so I'd better get cooking. If only the cursor in my word processor would stop laughing at me.
I am studying hard for my first performance of Babar the Elephant this Sunday. The show is not as well constructed as Peter and the Wolf, but it seems like a lot of fun anyway. I think performing for children is the coolest thing ever. Childrens' imaginations are so pliable. They haven't learned to ask so many limiting questions, so you hold up your arm and you have a trunk. It's that simple.
I haven't been able to sit doen and write posts each day like I like to, but this is a start. Look for some of the more poetic musings I've been to busy to type in the next couple of days.
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Change
"Who can say if I've been changed for the better. . .
I do believe I've been changed for the better. . .
and because I knew you. . .
I have been changed for good."
-Wicked
For those of you who don't know about this fabulous musical. Wicked is based on the novel (of the same title) by Gregory Maguire. The book was written by Winnie Holzman and the music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. The story is essentially a revisionist history telling of The Wizard of Oz. In this version Dorothy is simply an irritating device, the true story is about the Wicked Witch Elphaba, and her relationship with Galinda. "The 'Ga' is silent." With a cast including Joel Grey, Carole Shelley, Idina Manzel, and Kristin Chenoweth this is a great production. The song quoted above is a final duet between Elphaba and Galinda.
So here I am, my second time seeing this fabulous musical, and this particular song is making me weep like a ninny. Thank goodness my father was crying too or my masculinity would have been seriously insulted. I was so genuinely touched by the relationship that these two women have, that it struck a chord with every good relationship in my life. It is a remarkable idea to think about how we change on another.
In my life I have been fortunate to have a string of wonderful people pass through. I think perhaps the mark of a great friend is that they have truly changed you. The people that I hold closest are the ones that I can't imagine who I would be if they hadn't been there. Sometimes friends come in surprising packages. To all of the people who have changed my life, I am sending you this quote. I think you'll know who you are. You have all touched me and I have grown.
I do believe I've been changed for the better. . .
and because I knew you. . .
I have been changed for good."
For those of you who don't know about this fabulous musical. Wicked is based on the novel (of the same title) by Gregory Maguire. The book was written by Winnie Holzman and the music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. The story is essentially a revisionist history telling of The Wizard of Oz. In this version Dorothy is simply an irritating device, the true story is about the Wicked Witch Elphaba, and her relationship with Galinda. "The 'Ga' is silent." With a cast including Joel Grey, Carole Shelley, Idina Manzel, and Kristin Chenoweth this is a great production. The song quoted above is a final duet between Elphaba and Galinda.
So here I am, my second time seeing this fabulous musical, and this particular song is making me weep like a ninny. Thank goodness my father was crying too or my masculinity would have been seriously insulted. I was so genuinely touched by the relationship that these two women have, that it struck a chord with every good relationship in my life. It is a remarkable idea to think about how we change on another.
In my life I have been fortunate to have a string of wonderful people pass through. I think perhaps the mark of a great friend is that they have truly changed you. The people that I hold closest are the ones that I can't imagine who I would be if they hadn't been there. Sometimes friends come in surprising packages. To all of the people who have changed my life, I am sending you this quote. I think you'll know who you are. You have all touched me and I have grown.
Friday, November 28, 2003
Sleepy and Full
I hope this post finds my readers with full bellies and warm hearts. Our Thanksgiving was great. The roomate got home from a grueling day of serving coffee to frantic Macy's parade atendees. He brought his best friend with him. My good friend Nic arrived quickly on their heels. The second bird came out perfect, and the spread was absolutely wonderful. This week has been absolutely torturous for my spoiled little dogs. So much kitchen activity that they're beside themselves with where and who to beg. I think that Puck will sleep the tryptophan sleep all week. A good day was had by all.
I am thankful to have such a wonderful family be they by blood or by love.
I am thankful to have such a wonderful family be they by blood or by love.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Turkey and Plants
Tattoos went well. I will post a picture soon. It was great to see Maryanne. She is creating genius to apply to the Creative Writing Program at Brown. I love knowing so many smart artists. Now I'm in full Thanksgiving mode.
I started shopping today. Some baking has begun. Today I made Cranberry Orange nut bread with almonds and walnuts. I may have to bake more before Thanksgiving. It's just too good to stop eating. I think the menu is as follows:
2 x 23 lbs. Turkeys
Cornbread-Garlic stuffing (in bird and out)
Yellow Squash w/ White Cheese Sauce and Almonds
Tangerine Glazed Green Beans and Almonds
Sweet Potato French Fries
Mixed Potato Roaster (poss. w/ celery root)
Ambrosia
Cranberry Nut Bread
Buttermilk Pie a la mode
maybe a Cranberry Chutney (or plain old canned cranberry sauce)
My parents got into town today. It makes me feel like I'm six years old. I get so excited for their arrival. I had to declare two of my plants goners today after months of trying to nurse them to health. I went to the nursery to find replacement plants. I came home with four. I did not do my usual pre-shopping research today, so these will be a rushed learning experience.
One of the plants already threw me a curve ball. It's called a prayer plant. It has the most beautiful variagated leaves with a red vein. The leaves are round and fan out from a central point. After dinner I went in to light my tea lights and all of the leaves had folded into the center. At first I thought something was wrong, then I realized that must be why they call it a prayer plant. A little research proved me correct. The prayer plant folds its hands each evening in prayer. Again 10 points and a gold star for god.
I was romanced today by a pitcher plant. Does anyone have any idea how hard they are to keep alive?
I'll write something more interesting tomorrow.
I started shopping today. Some baking has begun. Today I made Cranberry Orange nut bread with almonds and walnuts. I may have to bake more before Thanksgiving. It's just too good to stop eating. I think the menu is as follows:
2 x 23 lbs. Turkeys
Cornbread-Garlic stuffing (in bird and out)
Yellow Squash w/ White Cheese Sauce and Almonds
Tangerine Glazed Green Beans and Almonds
Sweet Potato French Fries
Mixed Potato Roaster (poss. w/ celery root)
Ambrosia
Cranberry Nut Bread
Buttermilk Pie a la mode
maybe a Cranberry Chutney (or plain old canned cranberry sauce)
My parents got into town today. It makes me feel like I'm six years old. I get so excited for their arrival. I had to declare two of my plants goners today after months of trying to nurse them to health. I went to the nursery to find replacement plants. I came home with four. I did not do my usual pre-shopping research today, so these will be a rushed learning experience.
One of the plants already threw me a curve ball. It's called a prayer plant. It has the most beautiful variagated leaves with a red vein. The leaves are round and fan out from a central point. After dinner I went in to light my tea lights and all of the leaves had folded into the center. At first I thought something was wrong, then I realized that must be why they call it a prayer plant. A little research proved me correct. The prayer plant folds its hands each evening in prayer. Again 10 points and a gold star for god.
I was romanced today by a pitcher plant. Does anyone have any idea how hard they are to keep alive?
I'll write something more interesting tomorrow.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Tattoo
And so it begins. . .
A weekend of catharcis. Today would have been the day that Little Jess's body began to give up. I recieved a call that I should come in tomorrow and tell her goodbye. I didn't want to go. Something in my heart kept saying "She's not in there." We gathered in Mary and Marrianne's home that night to cry. I had been watching The Shipping News when Jess's dad called. Two years ago I was in the hospital and had told Jess I wanted to see it. I waited for the DVD. I still haven't watched the end.
My parents drove me over to Mary and Marriane's. They didn't feel right coming in so they drove around Astoria and got Dunkin' Donuts coffee. We were in for a long week. I watched my friends arrive and collapse into eachother. Tears and Wailing hardly seemed enough. Nobody else had been invited to the hospital the next day. I think they were lucky. We all held hands and wept in spurts. I cried all the way home. "Can I do anything?" My mother had asked. "We got you a coffee." "I don't think I can stand feeling any more awake."
A hot cup of coffee can sometimes stop an asthma attack. Ed didn't stop to make coffee. The ambulance had not had a percolator.
The next morning I would wander down the long hall of Mt. Sinai. The family had begun to pack up their belongings. The waiting room was no longer ours. The wait was over. A new family was already taking over. I gave them my bag of quarters for parking and phone calls. I felt rediculous talking to Jess. Why wouldn't she just sit up and answer. "It's time!" We all collapsed in tears. Jess went away. Her heart still lives in a 50 year old man. Funny, a piece of ours had shrivelled and died. She was keeping her eyes. I wished I could see them sparkle.
Tomorrow a small group of us are getting tattoos as a memorial. Not everyones cup of tea, but it makes sense to us. Somehow, carving this loss into our flesh is just a physical manifestation of what has happened to us for a year now. Bring the pain into the physical world. Make our scars visible. I will wear mine with pride. At least I know when the tattoo will heal.
A weekend of catharcis. Today would have been the day that Little Jess's body began to give up. I recieved a call that I should come in tomorrow and tell her goodbye. I didn't want to go. Something in my heart kept saying "She's not in there." We gathered in Mary and Marrianne's home that night to cry. I had been watching The Shipping News when Jess's dad called. Two years ago I was in the hospital and had told Jess I wanted to see it. I waited for the DVD. I still haven't watched the end.
My parents drove me over to Mary and Marriane's. They didn't feel right coming in so they drove around Astoria and got Dunkin' Donuts coffee. We were in for a long week. I watched my friends arrive and collapse into eachother. Tears and Wailing hardly seemed enough. Nobody else had been invited to the hospital the next day. I think they were lucky. We all held hands and wept in spurts. I cried all the way home. "Can I do anything?" My mother had asked. "We got you a coffee." "I don't think I can stand feeling any more awake."
A hot cup of coffee can sometimes stop an asthma attack. Ed didn't stop to make coffee. The ambulance had not had a percolator.
The next morning I would wander down the long hall of Mt. Sinai. The family had begun to pack up their belongings. The waiting room was no longer ours. The wait was over. A new family was already taking over. I gave them my bag of quarters for parking and phone calls. I felt rediculous talking to Jess. Why wouldn't she just sit up and answer. "It's time!" We all collapsed in tears. Jess went away. Her heart still lives in a 50 year old man. Funny, a piece of ours had shrivelled and died. She was keeping her eyes. I wished I could see them sparkle.
Tomorrow a small group of us are getting tattoos as a memorial. Not everyones cup of tea, but it makes sense to us. Somehow, carving this loss into our flesh is just a physical manifestation of what has happened to us for a year now. Bring the pain into the physical world. Make our scars visible. I will wear mine with pride. At least I know when the tattoo will heal.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
That Demon Alcohol
OK. I believe that secrets, and things left inside gain power, so I'm gonna put this out there. If I say it out loud I won't have to act on it.
I want to get drunk. I want to get numb. I want to be, throw away the cap, turn the bottle over my face, can't see, can't walk, can't remember, lose myself in the madness drunk. I want to drink away every painful and overwhelming well spring that bubbles up inside me, and just flood them over with alcohol. I want to get so drunk that even the whiskey feels embarrased.
I want to hoot and hollar, and yell about nothing. I want raging parties, a raging blood-stream, and endless release. I want to kiss someone I'd never kiss sober. I want to fall down and hug that toilet and yell into it as though it were screaming back. I want to sound a drunken yawp which carries every bit of emotion out of my body. Then I want to start again. I want to drink until I feel that click.
I want bed-spins and blackouts. I want to pass out on some couch thankful it's not a dumpster, or pass out in some dumpster thinking it is a couch. I want to act like it's spring break in Mazetlan. I want to be cut off by the bartender so I can start at another bar. I want to exhaust that one so I can drink a twelve pack at home. I want to stand in front of a toilet for five minutes deciding whether to puke or piss. I want to lose track of all time and space, and spend even one night away from the truth. I want to wake up still drunk and wonder what happened after nine 'o' clock. I want whole sections of my life to be washed away into a drunken haze.
I want bloody beers for breakfast, and champagne and orange juice with brunch. I want beer and football by two, and pre-dinner martinis as an apertif. I want a bottle of wine with dinner, a glass of port between courses, and chilled Grand Marniere with desert. I want to retire to the lounge for Bourbon and cigars, and have endless circular conversations with my drunken fellows. I want an entire schedule comprised of stuff that doesn't matter, filled with opulence and excess. I want to embrace my American sense of 'more!', and create a status quo of numbness. I want to consume! I want to choke out the stuff that makes me feel, and fill myself back up with food and beverage.
I want to be challenged to a drinking competition by midnight, and choke down twenty shots just to exert, my strength and virility. I want a thick glaze to form over my eyes, and alcohol to stream from my pores when I exercise. I want bar tabs on my credit card that I don't remember signing for. I want car-bombs, and Boiler Makers, frosty steins and martini shakers. I want to face the two headed dragon of liquor and slay him with my thirsty tongue. I want to dance atop the beer kegs, and table tops. I want to fall off of the same bar stool 17 times and get back on that horse. I want to feel stronger than I've ever felt, unbeatable and unstoppable. I want to slake my thirst for comfort and rise as a stone cold army of one.
I want a glass of beer to ask me if it's a good idea to drink anymore, and I want to say YES. I want to skirt authority and reason. I want to get drunk. I want to get out of my head. I want to get piss-drunk, waisted, hammered, oblitherated, shnockered, fucked-up, twisted, sideways, fubar, retarded, intoxicated. I want to get numb, silly, stupid, dangerous, and crazy. I want to stand at the edge of each metaphorical cliff and have no fear.
I want to drink you under the table, and I could. . . If I drank.
I have been sober for 1 year, 8 months, and 17 days.
Sobriety is probably the best thing I have ever done for myself, but sometimes I wish I could go back. Not really, it's just something I think about. The problem is once I start that's what I do.
I want to get drunk. I want to get numb. I want to be, throw away the cap, turn the bottle over my face, can't see, can't walk, can't remember, lose myself in the madness drunk. I want to drink away every painful and overwhelming well spring that bubbles up inside me, and just flood them over with alcohol. I want to get so drunk that even the whiskey feels embarrased.
I want to hoot and hollar, and yell about nothing. I want raging parties, a raging blood-stream, and endless release. I want to kiss someone I'd never kiss sober. I want to fall down and hug that toilet and yell into it as though it were screaming back. I want to sound a drunken yawp which carries every bit of emotion out of my body. Then I want to start again. I want to drink until I feel that click.
I want bed-spins and blackouts. I want to pass out on some couch thankful it's not a dumpster, or pass out in some dumpster thinking it is a couch. I want to act like it's spring break in Mazetlan. I want to be cut off by the bartender so I can start at another bar. I want to exhaust that one so I can drink a twelve pack at home. I want to stand in front of a toilet for five minutes deciding whether to puke or piss. I want to lose track of all time and space, and spend even one night away from the truth. I want to wake up still drunk and wonder what happened after nine 'o' clock. I want whole sections of my life to be washed away into a drunken haze.
I want bloody beers for breakfast, and champagne and orange juice with brunch. I want beer and football by two, and pre-dinner martinis as an apertif. I want a bottle of wine with dinner, a glass of port between courses, and chilled Grand Marniere with desert. I want to retire to the lounge for Bourbon and cigars, and have endless circular conversations with my drunken fellows. I want an entire schedule comprised of stuff that doesn't matter, filled with opulence and excess. I want to embrace my American sense of 'more!', and create a status quo of numbness. I want to consume! I want to choke out the stuff that makes me feel, and fill myself back up with food and beverage.
I want to be challenged to a drinking competition by midnight, and choke down twenty shots just to exert, my strength and virility. I want a thick glaze to form over my eyes, and alcohol to stream from my pores when I exercise. I want bar tabs on my credit card that I don't remember signing for. I want car-bombs, and Boiler Makers, frosty steins and martini shakers. I want to face the two headed dragon of liquor and slay him with my thirsty tongue. I want to dance atop the beer kegs, and table tops. I want to fall off of the same bar stool 17 times and get back on that horse. I want to feel stronger than I've ever felt, unbeatable and unstoppable. I want to slake my thirst for comfort and rise as a stone cold army of one.
I want a glass of beer to ask me if it's a good idea to drink anymore, and I want to say YES. I want to skirt authority and reason. I want to get drunk. I want to get out of my head. I want to get piss-drunk, waisted, hammered, oblitherated, shnockered, fucked-up, twisted, sideways, fubar, retarded, intoxicated. I want to get numb, silly, stupid, dangerous, and crazy. I want to stand at the edge of each metaphorical cliff and have no fear.
I want to drink you under the table, and I could. . . If I drank.
I have been sober for 1 year, 8 months, and 17 days.
Sobriety is probably the best thing I have ever done for myself, but sometimes I wish I could go back. Not really, it's just something I think about. The problem is once I start that's what I do.
Monday, November 17, 2003
1/2 Cup of Sleep
Daylight savings time is over and the desire to hybernate is setting in. I wake to the sound of Chris asking me if the power has gone off. The clock is blinking. Yes, the power has most certainly gone off. It's 5:49am. It's dark outside. The wind whips around whistling through the ever more naked trees, and everything sparkles with beads of moisture. I assume it rained last night. The dogs only make it halfway around the block before a chill wind tickles their bellies and they want to go back home. It's still dark. The neighbors lights are slowly blinking on, as morning disturbs slumber from house to house I wonder if their fighting hybernation instincts too. It's cold! This morning is the first time I really feel it hit my bones. The dogs waddle up the stairs dragging their leashes behind them. Breakfast and treats for everyone. Chris is on his train, on his way to the flower market, and I am listening to the gentle rumblings of the tea kettle, waiting to hear that distant whistle. The train sounds first, crossing the bridge. Then, as if in jealousy my kettle hums a third above. Coffee for me, steam for the orchids. My phaleaenopsis has opened another glorious bloom for me. A spot of spring in my window sill. How strange! The plant is even shooting up a second spike to fill with blooms. If I play my cards right I will have flowers until Christmas. The gang will gather this weekend to honor Li'l Jess. I can't believe we've been without her for a year. It's no wonder the sun was out so little this year. "Funny" Ed had said "Time flies when you don't want it to, and then stops dead." The snow enshrouded us, the day she was buried. I wonder if it will snow again this year. Gotta bundle up. It's time to catch my train. Even my cup of coffee is sleepy.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Giving Birth
I feel like I have given birth. Oh my goodness was it a long labor. I have been working on a poem for a little over two months, that I finally finished tonight. It is essentially a response piece to a work by James Merrill. James Merrill wrote a book called The Changing Light at Sandover which included a poem called The Book of Ephraim. The poem details sessions he and his lover (David Jackson) had with a Ouija Board. During these sessions they communed with a spirit named Ephraim. The poem truly affected me, and it has taken me a long time to finish responding. Finally tonight it was done. If you want to read the poem that I wrote check out the 'Read my Poetry' link to the right.
Friday, November 14, 2003
 I taste like Peanut Butter.I am one of the most blendable flavours; I go with sweet, I go with sour, I go with bland, I go with anything. I am practical and good company, but have something of a tendency to hang around when I'm not wanted, unaware that my presence is not welcome. What Flavour Are You? |
The Happy Book
Sometime's I think that there are pools of wisdom within the human soul that actually degrade as we get older. The simplicity and directness with which most children aproach their lives seems wiser than the way of many adults. And there are certainly bits of wisdom that I had a much stronger connection with in days of yore than I do now. Fortunately, I have wonderful people that have made the journey with me, who the universe thrusts forward when i get all turned around, to remind me of important things I've forgotten. My good friend Leah turns out to be a fellow blogger. This week she published a post about The Happy Book. In the midst of a pretty funky depression I realized that the universe was handing me the key to relief in the form of a little synchronicity.
Let me explain. The Happy Book started as a blank book and some teenage wisdom. I came to believe that as long as you looked for the trying, depressing, difficult things in your life that you would find them, and that they would only serve to make you unhappy; therefore, I felt as if it was important to keep some sort of record of the things that made me happy. That way, whenever I felt down I could turn to this record for help. In a little black journal I began to draw, write, and doodle a functional list of things that made me happy. It was fun! As I filled more and more pages of the book, it began to be a favorite read for my friends. Soon they began to fill pages of their own happy thoughts inside my book. The book went everywhere I did. I traveled for many years with an array of Crayola Markers (one of the things that made me happy.) At any moment my friends and I could be found observing or recording the things that made us all happy. It may seem like a trite gesture to some, but it truly helped me through some difficult times.
I hadn't even thought about The Happy Book in a long time until just the other day. I was driving to work and thought that I should try and remember all the things that make me happy. I wondered if I even knew where The Happy Book was. Then when I got home I read Leah's post declaring that she was starting her own Happy Book this Friday, I realized that it was time to turn back to the pages of this tattered, torn book of joy. I sat down tonight and wandered through it page by page. Every page is filled with places, people, moments, and memories that made me smile. I'm not sure when I quit keeping up with the book, or when I lost sight of the importance of recording my joy. Thank heavens, that Leah was able to remind me. This week I will make time to begin The Happy Book II- Return To Happiness.
Tonight, I'm typing a few entries to get me started:
The sound of a crowd of children being entertained.
Decoding a really good section of a James Merril poem.
The way Jazmine (my dog) hugs my neck and presses her neck to my lips for kisses.
The way Puck (my other dog) whines to express almost every emotion. He's such a weenie!
My plants.
My orchid in bloom.
Random voicemails that contain the most beautiful poetry ever written, and knowing my friends wrote it.
The exchange of knowledge between a teacher and a student.
The thought of L'il Jess's smile and the big impression she made on my life.
A clean kitchen.
A mountain sky with more stars than you can even imagine.
The Happy Book.
Thank you Leah for reminding me!
Let me explain. The Happy Book started as a blank book and some teenage wisdom. I came to believe that as long as you looked for the trying, depressing, difficult things in your life that you would find them, and that they would only serve to make you unhappy; therefore, I felt as if it was important to keep some sort of record of the things that made me happy. That way, whenever I felt down I could turn to this record for help. In a little black journal I began to draw, write, and doodle a functional list of things that made me happy. It was fun! As I filled more and more pages of the book, it began to be a favorite read for my friends. Soon they began to fill pages of their own happy thoughts inside my book. The book went everywhere I did. I traveled for many years with an array of Crayola Markers (one of the things that made me happy.) At any moment my friends and I could be found observing or recording the things that made us all happy. It may seem like a trite gesture to some, but it truly helped me through some difficult times.
I hadn't even thought about The Happy Book in a long time until just the other day. I was driving to work and thought that I should try and remember all the things that make me happy. I wondered if I even knew where The Happy Book was. Then when I got home I read Leah's post declaring that she was starting her own Happy Book this Friday, I realized that it was time to turn back to the pages of this tattered, torn book of joy. I sat down tonight and wandered through it page by page. Every page is filled with places, people, moments, and memories that made me smile. I'm not sure when I quit keeping up with the book, or when I lost sight of the importance of recording my joy. Thank heavens, that Leah was able to remind me. This week I will make time to begin The Happy Book II- Return To Happiness.
Tonight, I'm typing a few entries to get me started:
The sound of a crowd of children being entertained.
Decoding a really good section of a James Merril poem.
The way Jazmine (my dog) hugs my neck and presses her neck to my lips for kisses.
The way Puck (my other dog) whines to express almost every emotion. He's such a weenie!
My plants.
My orchid in bloom.
Random voicemails that contain the most beautiful poetry ever written, and knowing my friends wrote it.
The exchange of knowledge between a teacher and a student.
The thought of L'il Jess's smile and the big impression she made on my life.
A clean kitchen.
A mountain sky with more stars than you can even imagine.
The Happy Book.
Thank you Leah for reminding me!
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Revolutions and The Trend of Anti-Trend
I found a great article on The Matrix: Revolutions called: In Defense of The Matrix. It's written by Tom Hoban and Matt Dorfman. I think it's worth reading if you've seen the movie.
In the meantime, there was a paragraph that stuck with me because it puts brilliant words to an idea I've been thinking about for a long time. The passage says:
"As for the Matrix, we were sold on it so long ago that we're better served by enjoying it for what it is.
It's surprising that so many people seem to have missed this notion entirely. The suffocating layers of irony that totally engulfed hip, urban, intellectualism have made it near impossible for people to get excited about anything anymore, least of all something so universally popular. We've created a culture of hating stuff, where it's not just easier, but safer, to be disappointed then to go out on a limb and say, 'you know what, I really enjoyed that.' Unless it's so esoteric and ambiguous that no one can reasonably make sense of it, it can't be cool."
I don't point to this quote because I see any problem with actually disliking or feeling indifferent towards the third installment of The Matrix; I point to this quote because it makes an interesting point. Somewhere around my seventh grade year I started to notice a trend around me that I called "The Trend of Anti-Trend." There seemed to be a growing sense that anything which attained any status or merit within mainstream culture must be hated at all costs. It seemed that the only way to establish yourself as a unique individual was to make sure that you weren't caught appreciating anything that "everyone liked." The slippery slope of it all (which seemed apparent to me even then) was that this phenomenon was born as a trend: and so, everything that was chosen to replace the likes of the masses represented the choices of a different mass. Thus was born a movement of pseudo-intellectual superiority that continues ad nauseam.
Now that I live in New York I see a much broader scope of this phenomenon. I see armies of "individual" scenesters who scoff at anything outside of their own circles. Each subset with it's own uniform and exclusive frames of reference. Frowned upon is the cross-scene floater, as is anything that does not fit in this particular box. I have more conversations with people on a daily basis about art that sucks than I do about something that is really great. I read newspaper and magazine columns that stream insults at the art they write about. Nothing is ever good enough, unless it is an obscure piece of art on limited distribution. It is much better to be hip enough and smart enough to advocate art that is avant-garde and difficult to view. This makes you infinitely more evolved as a New Yorker, and as an American.
I too, see a culture that is built on hating things. I even find myself wrapped up in it sometimes, but there must be some value in wanting to be entertained. There must be some virtue in going into an experience hoping to get something good out of it. Is it so bad to have common interests, with people very different from you, in things that speak to you? Does the art that we appreciate say so much about us that we are afraid to let people in? Does this mean that construction workers in the Bronx will be hiding under the covers watching 'It's a Wonderful Life" on a portable TV at Christmas time, for fear that someone will see a vulnerability? Is the world so big and terrifying for many of us that we feel we have to claim a piece of intellectual territory, and hold on to it like we're making a stand at our own personal Alamo? Or is the fear that if you like something accessible, that you may find the differences between you and part of your tribe, and be lost in the cultural void?
I say open the dialogue with art. Look at what it touches in you. Find the universalities inside it. Be willing to be entertained. Then choose!
You know there's a reason they call it Entertainment.
In the meantime, there was a paragraph that stuck with me because it puts brilliant words to an idea I've been thinking about for a long time. The passage says:
"As for the Matrix, we were sold on it so long ago that we're better served by enjoying it for what it is.
It's surprising that so many people seem to have missed this notion entirely. The suffocating layers of irony that totally engulfed hip, urban, intellectualism have made it near impossible for people to get excited about anything anymore, least of all something so universally popular. We've created a culture of hating stuff, where it's not just easier, but safer, to be disappointed then to go out on a limb and say, 'you know what, I really enjoyed that.' Unless it's so esoteric and ambiguous that no one can reasonably make sense of it, it can't be cool."
I don't point to this quote because I see any problem with actually disliking or feeling indifferent towards the third installment of The Matrix; I point to this quote because it makes an interesting point. Somewhere around my seventh grade year I started to notice a trend around me that I called "The Trend of Anti-Trend." There seemed to be a growing sense that anything which attained any status or merit within mainstream culture must be hated at all costs. It seemed that the only way to establish yourself as a unique individual was to make sure that you weren't caught appreciating anything that "everyone liked." The slippery slope of it all (which seemed apparent to me even then) was that this phenomenon was born as a trend: and so, everything that was chosen to replace the likes of the masses represented the choices of a different mass. Thus was born a movement of pseudo-intellectual superiority that continues ad nauseam.
Now that I live in New York I see a much broader scope of this phenomenon. I see armies of "individual" scenesters who scoff at anything outside of their own circles. Each subset with it's own uniform and exclusive frames of reference. Frowned upon is the cross-scene floater, as is anything that does not fit in this particular box. I have more conversations with people on a daily basis about art that sucks than I do about something that is really great. I read newspaper and magazine columns that stream insults at the art they write about. Nothing is ever good enough, unless it is an obscure piece of art on limited distribution. It is much better to be hip enough and smart enough to advocate art that is avant-garde and difficult to view. This makes you infinitely more evolved as a New Yorker, and as an American.
I too, see a culture that is built on hating things. I even find myself wrapped up in it sometimes, but there must be some value in wanting to be entertained. There must be some virtue in going into an experience hoping to get something good out of it. Is it so bad to have common interests, with people very different from you, in things that speak to you? Does the art that we appreciate say so much about us that we are afraid to let people in? Does this mean that construction workers in the Bronx will be hiding under the covers watching 'It's a Wonderful Life" on a portable TV at Christmas time, for fear that someone will see a vulnerability? Is the world so big and terrifying for many of us that we feel we have to claim a piece of intellectual territory, and hold on to it like we're making a stand at our own personal Alamo? Or is the fear that if you like something accessible, that you may find the differences between you and part of your tribe, and be lost in the cultural void?
I say open the dialogue with art. Look at what it touches in you. Find the universalities inside it. Be willing to be entertained. Then choose!
You know there's a reason they call it Entertainment.
My First Bloom
The first bloom opened on my orchid this morning. What a blessing to wake and find it unfurled in a state of glory. I was instantly taken aback by the sheer beauty of a plant. Gold star to the creator for designing such a magnificent living thing! I think orchids could be a new addiction. This is what it looks like.
Monday, November 10, 2003
The Ubiquitous Miss
She's everywhere. No matter where I turn I think I see her, but of course she's not there. I catch a glimpse of her on a crowded street, and then she disappears into the crowd. I wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling that she's standing at my front door, maybe my dogs are even barking, but when I throw open my inner door and look down, nobody is standing at the foot of the stairs. I pick up the phone to call her (almost every day still) as if we just haven't been keeping up, and I could call and exchange the scoop on our lives. I miss Jessica!
My eyes still well with tears from the very act of typing those words, and that makes me feel sort of silly. Lately I've been thinking about the verbs of it all.:
To Remember- To excavate a certain depth or sector of the miracle that is one's mind and discover something that was left there. Sometimes the very act of remembering comes as a burden, but so much of what we remember has been buried up there to bring us joy. Memories are an opportunity to do it over again and again. The beauty of memories, is that they will be washed over with the waters of time until every roughness, and jagged edge are gone; until each time we take them out to hold them they fit polished and solid in the palms of our hands, like a worry stone of the soul. It's good to remember.
I remember the last time I saw Jessica. She had been in the area and suggested that she pick me up and drive me to work so that we could talk and catch up. She ran into all sorts of traffic, and the whole thing resulted in me being very late and very uptight. We bounced around in her Jeep, laughing and talking as she maneuvered maniacally through the imposing traffic. Most of my energy was focused on panicking about my tardiness. I wish I could remember every word we shared, but I don't, because I didn't know they were the last.
I remember getting her a night tending bar at a local gay club. A friend had called me and asked if I knew anyone good. Of course I said she would be perfect. I agreed to go out that night and hang out while she worked, we sat and talked in between her customers, and had a rouccous time. I remember watching her slide around a milk crate all night because she was too short to reach the liquor shelf. I remember the glitter around her eyes that night. I remember feeling good to have her nearby.
To Miss- To miss is to run your hands around the surface of your heart and discover an empty place, where something used to be. Sometimes the void is shaped like a place or time that once meant something to you, but most often they take the shape of people. Missing is pulling your heart out and observing the empty spaces, it starts with one specific thing or person, then it grows. To miss is to be bombarded with every single thing that has ever been lost. Once you begin to name the void, you discover that it is an ever changing, eternally healing wound left by that which. . . left.
I feel as though the miss becomes omnipresent. It's not simply that I miss Jessica, but I miss every tendril of time, and each loving soul that has passed. I ache with this. . .ubiquitous miss.
My eyes still well with tears from the very act of typing those words, and that makes me feel sort of silly. Lately I've been thinking about the verbs of it all.:
To Remember- To excavate a certain depth or sector of the miracle that is one's mind and discover something that was left there. Sometimes the very act of remembering comes as a burden, but so much of what we remember has been buried up there to bring us joy. Memories are an opportunity to do it over again and again. The beauty of memories, is that they will be washed over with the waters of time until every roughness, and jagged edge are gone; until each time we take them out to hold them they fit polished and solid in the palms of our hands, like a worry stone of the soul. It's good to remember.
I remember the last time I saw Jessica. She had been in the area and suggested that she pick me up and drive me to work so that we could talk and catch up. She ran into all sorts of traffic, and the whole thing resulted in me being very late and very uptight. We bounced around in her Jeep, laughing and talking as she maneuvered maniacally through the imposing traffic. Most of my energy was focused on panicking about my tardiness. I wish I could remember every word we shared, but I don't, because I didn't know they were the last.
I remember getting her a night tending bar at a local gay club. A friend had called me and asked if I knew anyone good. Of course I said she would be perfect. I agreed to go out that night and hang out while she worked, we sat and talked in between her customers, and had a rouccous time. I remember watching her slide around a milk crate all night because she was too short to reach the liquor shelf. I remember the glitter around her eyes that night. I remember feeling good to have her nearby.
To Miss- To miss is to run your hands around the surface of your heart and discover an empty place, where something used to be. Sometimes the void is shaped like a place or time that once meant something to you, but most often they take the shape of people. Missing is pulling your heart out and observing the empty spaces, it starts with one specific thing or person, then it grows. To miss is to be bombarded with every single thing that has ever been lost. Once you begin to name the void, you discover that it is an ever changing, eternally healing wound left by that which. . . left.
I feel as though the miss becomes omnipresent. It's not simply that I miss Jessica, but I miss every tendril of time, and each loving soul that has passed. I ache with this. . .ubiquitous miss.
Sunday, November 09, 2003
More Useless Information
This article seems like an interesting follow up to my previous article. An elephant never forgets! You have to admire this kind of tenacity, regardless of species. Although perhaps there's something to be said for flexibility.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
A Responsible Bit of Info
I found the truth about the bumblebee, but prefer to believe in the fable I intimated earlier.PhysicsWeb - Lasers illuminate the flight of the bumblebee
Limiting Voices
An Elephant Never Forgets!
Somewhere in my travels I heard this story. I took it for the source of this famous expression, but having done no research as to the source or validity, I make no attempt to authenticate this information.
From the very beginning of their lives, baby elephants in the circus would be staked in using a long stake and a sturdy chain that was completely immovable to them. The system by which they were held captive was such that it seemed quite extreme in comparison to the girth and strength of such a young elephant. As they grew and struggled through the phases of development they learned that no struggle, no mighty yank, would possibly yield freedom. Once they reached a certain age they began to stop struggling. As adults these same elephants were kept with such meegar systems as twine or thin rope. As long as something was wrapped around the foot where elaborate shackles and chains had once been, the elephants would maintain the learned distance from the stake. Obviously an elephant has the strength to break most standard ropes, and probably some small chains; Ah, but the elephants had learned their limitations, and "an elephant never forgets!"
Lately I have run into the twine around my ankle in several areas of my life. It usually comes as limiting voices from my past. They come from so many sources, and (as I had good mentors, teachers and heroes in my life) I imagine none of the people who created them intended to do so. Regardless of the intentions behind them, there is a tape which plays for almost any endeavor I take on. There is a sound loop of "You'll Never's" and "You Can't's" which seems to get louder the more I stretch myself and try to succeed. Some of these limiting voices are even my own, sailing forward through cerebral highways and byways, from moments in which I had much less faith in my self.
I know that I am worthy of success. I know that I have a wealth of things to offer this world. But somehow, every time I step into a high pressure situation. . ."YOOOOOOUU SUUUUUCK!". . . "GIIIIVE UUUUP BEEEFOOORE IT'S TOOOOO LAATE!" There they are again.
My solution is to try to find as many encouraging voices in my life as I possibly can. I try to seek guidance from people who want me to succeed, and to avoid any sort of mentor or teacher who deals in cant's, wont's, and never's. This part is fairly easy. The harder part is trying to cleanse my own criticisms of the same kind of language. Growth is such an irritating process!
What I wonder, is why do these voices play so loud? How often do we create them in the lives of people we love? And, how many children are we staking to the ground with the things we say?
What if everyone made an effort every day, to give someone near them wings? Say YES to someone close to you. Because they will never forget it.
Another sourceless anecdote:
The mass of a bumblebee's body exceeds the lift which can be created by their wing surface. There is no explanation for the physics of how they fly. The bumblebee flies anyway. Perhaps the bumblebee has no language for the word "NO"
Somewhere in my travels I heard this story. I took it for the source of this famous expression, but having done no research as to the source or validity, I make no attempt to authenticate this information.
From the very beginning of their lives, baby elephants in the circus would be staked in using a long stake and a sturdy chain that was completely immovable to them. The system by which they were held captive was such that it seemed quite extreme in comparison to the girth and strength of such a young elephant. As they grew and struggled through the phases of development they learned that no struggle, no mighty yank, would possibly yield freedom. Once they reached a certain age they began to stop struggling. As adults these same elephants were kept with such meegar systems as twine or thin rope. As long as something was wrapped around the foot where elaborate shackles and chains had once been, the elephants would maintain the learned distance from the stake. Obviously an elephant has the strength to break most standard ropes, and probably some small chains; Ah, but the elephants had learned their limitations, and "an elephant never forgets!"
Lately I have run into the twine around my ankle in several areas of my life. It usually comes as limiting voices from my past. They come from so many sources, and (as I had good mentors, teachers and heroes in my life) I imagine none of the people who created them intended to do so. Regardless of the intentions behind them, there is a tape which plays for almost any endeavor I take on. There is a sound loop of "You'll Never's" and "You Can't's" which seems to get louder the more I stretch myself and try to succeed. Some of these limiting voices are even my own, sailing forward through cerebral highways and byways, from moments in which I had much less faith in my self.
I know that I am worthy of success. I know that I have a wealth of things to offer this world. But somehow, every time I step into a high pressure situation. . ."YOOOOOOUU SUUUUUCK!". . . "GIIIIVE UUUUP BEEEFOOORE IT'S TOOOOO LAATE!" There they are again.
My solution is to try to find as many encouraging voices in my life as I possibly can. I try to seek guidance from people who want me to succeed, and to avoid any sort of mentor or teacher who deals in cant's, wont's, and never's. This part is fairly easy. The harder part is trying to cleanse my own criticisms of the same kind of language. Growth is such an irritating process!
What I wonder, is why do these voices play so loud? How often do we create them in the lives of people we love? And, how many children are we staking to the ground with the things we say?
What if everyone made an effort every day, to give someone near them wings? Say YES to someone close to you. Because they will never forget it.
Another sourceless anecdote:
The mass of a bumblebee's body exceeds the lift which can be created by their wing surface. There is no explanation for the physics of how they fly. The bumblebee flies anyway. Perhaps the bumblebee has no language for the word "NO"
Teaching Opportunity
I had a job interview today with The Bronx Arts Ensemble. The position is an opportunity to teach movement to elementary school children. I feel very excited about this opportunity. I feel like there are many signs in my life pointing me towards teaching. On one hand I feel so blessed to have a recognized gift for teaching. What better way to leave my mark on the world than to invest in the growth of a handful of young people? On the other hand I worry that teaching as a path is a distraction from the other goals in my life. I feel like a "good" teacher has his or her own ego completely worked out before they reach out to students. I would love to pass on the gifts that my teachers have given me, but I'm just not sure if I'm ready. I suppose there's only one way to find out. [WT takes a leap of faith.]
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Heaven Is In The Memory
A good friend told me recently that if heaven exists, it is surely in the memory of the living. As November is settling in this year and the air is getting colder, I am fighting an awful depression. My good friend Jessica Marie Kupczak died last November 23rd. I miss her so much, that sometimes it feels as though I might faint. I tried to take great comfort in the idea that she would live eternally in the memories of those who loved her, but when I close my eyes and reach for her I find her evasive at best. The things I remember about her come to me in fragmented snippets. It's like trying to watch a flock of geese fly through the spaces of a grove of trees on a foggy November day. The details are moving too quickly and are too far away.
What I am left with:
Her infectious laugh
The glimmer in her eyes
The way she made me forget my cares as long as she was near me
The purest truest heart I've ever encountered
and Unbelievably striking beauty
I don't remember endless anecdotal stories about times we shared. I just remember her essence, and the love that I had for her. I hope that is enough.
What I am left with:
Her infectious laugh
The glimmer in her eyes
The way she made me forget my cares as long as she was near me
The purest truest heart I've ever encountered
and Unbelievably striking beauty
I don't remember endless anecdotal stories about times we shared. I just remember her essence, and the love that I had for her. I hope that is enough.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Where Do I Go?
"You know. . . ART is why I get up in the morning,
but my definition ends there. It doesn't seem fair,
That I'm living for something I can't even define. . ."
-Ani DiFranco
I spent the evening talking with my good friend Anna. Anna is someone I studied acting with at Adelphi University. She was expressing to me an almost paralyzing sense of: "What do I do NOW?" Because my circle of friends is comprised almost entirely of actors and artists, I find that this is something I hear expressed almost too often. I personally go through it every day. I look around at all of the possibilities, then I look ahead at the staggering challenges that lie before me, and I want to bury my head in the sand and have a REALLY good cry. I think "Maybe I'll sell everything and run off to Tibet, or go back to school and become a heart surgeon, or enlist in the army." The last thought usually stops this silliness, but often not the paralysis. What scares me even more, is that I was speaking the other night with an actor, in his forties, who told me he's still not sure what to do with his life. I imagine that this sort of fear and doubt extends outside of the artistic community. I suppose that these feelings are part of the drawbacks that come with choice and freedom.
Anna pointed out that the entire human system is based on creation. Everything from our mythologies to our lifestyles are founded on the principals of creation. Beyond the arts, industry is entirely based on creating and distributing something (ie. Widgets.) . . . Even the domestic arts are driven towards creating a "home" and a family. It's as though we woke up in the primordial soup somewhere and said: "Uh-oh, we're developing opposable thumbs boys and girls. We'd better do something GREAT with these." I think that the need to create is a sort of extension of the quest for the holy grail. We all want to live forever. If you can create something that lasts, if you can really have your voice heard, then you can outlive your body; but, if you don't achieve something lasting, you have to face your own extinction. In this respect, the entire quest becomes about the products that you will have finished when your number comes up.
What if the quest itself were enough? What if you believed that you were doing something great, simply by waking up each morning? What if every choice you were faced with carried a disclaimer that said "There's no wrong answer!" There's a real poetry to the way people strive to make the correct choice, to do the right thing, to put something GrEaT into the universe. I say- Fuck it up! Make some mistakes! Make something mediochre! Don't worry about where it will take you, because your probably already headed there anyway. The only way to really see the outcomes and the drawbacks of our choices is to look back on the ones we've made. I say- make a choice. If it doesn't take you where you'd like to be, make another. Just make sure, you notice the journey.
but my definition ends there. It doesn't seem fair,
That I'm living for something I can't even define. . ."
-Ani DiFranco
I spent the evening talking with my good friend Anna. Anna is someone I studied acting with at Adelphi University. She was expressing to me an almost paralyzing sense of: "What do I do NOW?" Because my circle of friends is comprised almost entirely of actors and artists, I find that this is something I hear expressed almost too often. I personally go through it every day. I look around at all of the possibilities, then I look ahead at the staggering challenges that lie before me, and I want to bury my head in the sand and have a REALLY good cry. I think "Maybe I'll sell everything and run off to Tibet, or go back to school and become a heart surgeon, or enlist in the army." The last thought usually stops this silliness, but often not the paralysis. What scares me even more, is that I was speaking the other night with an actor, in his forties, who told me he's still not sure what to do with his life. I imagine that this sort of fear and doubt extends outside of the artistic community. I suppose that these feelings are part of the drawbacks that come with choice and freedom.
Anna pointed out that the entire human system is based on creation. Everything from our mythologies to our lifestyles are founded on the principals of creation. Beyond the arts, industry is entirely based on creating and distributing something (ie. Widgets.) . . . Even the domestic arts are driven towards creating a "home" and a family. It's as though we woke up in the primordial soup somewhere and said: "Uh-oh, we're developing opposable thumbs boys and girls. We'd better do something GREAT with these." I think that the need to create is a sort of extension of the quest for the holy grail. We all want to live forever. If you can create something that lasts, if you can really have your voice heard, then you can outlive your body; but, if you don't achieve something lasting, you have to face your own extinction. In this respect, the entire quest becomes about the products that you will have finished when your number comes up.
What if the quest itself were enough? What if you believed that you were doing something great, simply by waking up each morning? What if every choice you were faced with carried a disclaimer that said "There's no wrong answer!" There's a real poetry to the way people strive to make the correct choice, to do the right thing, to put something GrEaT into the universe. I say- Fuck it up! Make some mistakes! Make something mediochre! Don't worry about where it will take you, because your probably already headed there anyway. The only way to really see the outcomes and the drawbacks of our choices is to look back on the ones we've made. I say- make a choice. If it doesn't take you where you'd like to be, make another. Just make sure, you notice the journey.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
My First Feedback
Thanks to Ray Huttash for being the first to respond to my little musings! :-)
All you other folks feel free to jump on the band wagon.
In response to what you said, I have a couple of things to post.
I met with a friend in Colorado who is studying brain disorders quite heavily in PT school. He was explaining to me that the newest diagnosis trend in children is Autism. Finally! We've found a way to excuse a child's shortcomings, and still call them a genius. Isn't that Brilliant? Now all the parents can go on happily about their days with that peace of mind, while the television raises their children.
It's interesting what Ray points out about getting children in active situations. I think that children who spend all of their free time watching TV and playing video games while eating candy and drinking soda, are bound to come up with a bit of extra energy.
The big curiosity I have about the diagnosis and treatment of such disorders, is about the American Quick-Fix. They say that we know miles more about how black holes are formed, work, and die than we have been able to decode about our own brains. And yet, we feel confident to adjust people's brain chemistry, day in and day out, with no fear. It makes one wonder.
All you other folks feel free to jump on the band wagon.
In response to what you said, I have a couple of things to post.
I met with a friend in Colorado who is studying brain disorders quite heavily in PT school. He was explaining to me that the newest diagnosis trend in children is Autism. Finally! We've found a way to excuse a child's shortcomings, and still call them a genius. Isn't that Brilliant? Now all the parents can go on happily about their days with that peace of mind, while the television raises their children.
It's interesting what Ray points out about getting children in active situations. I think that children who spend all of their free time watching TV and playing video games while eating candy and drinking soda, are bound to come up with a bit of extra energy.
The big curiosity I have about the diagnosis and treatment of such disorders, is about the American Quick-Fix. They say that we know miles more about how black holes are formed, work, and die than we have been able to decode about our own brains. And yet, we feel confident to adjust people's brain chemistry, day in and day out, with no fear. It makes one wonder.
Your Apathy is Killing People
I had dinner in the city tonight at Lucky Chang's. On my journey toward Penn Station, somewhere near Chelsea, I saw a piece of graffiti that stuck in my head. The graffiti was stenciled in many locations in white spray paint. It said "YOUR APATHY IS KILLING PEOPLE."
Who is this piece of propaganda speaking to? What does it hope to achieve? I imagine some twenty-something revolutionary spraypainting in the dead of night feeling very clever at his ability to move people to action. It makes me think of a quote I encountered from Ghandi (no clue as to the context) "It doesn't matter what you do. only that you do it."
On one hand I like the empowerment offered by this little piece of graffiti. There is an implication here that even a single voice has the power to save lives, that the enforcing of change starts with taking interest, and that even by analyzing one's apathy a system of change is being imposed. This quote becomes a challenge to right a wrong, to involve yourself in the world around you. I think this is an important idea to grapple with. One can not be both apathetic and involved, and so by taking an active interest in something you become powerful.
On the other hand, there are implications which concern me. Is there truly such a wide spread lack of interest in the human condition that people are dying? Is this pointed at our voices or our lifestyles? I have heard it said that my generation is classifiable by our apathetic attitudes. It would stand to reason, in a democratic society, that crops of coming-of-age-voters who don't care, could mean dangerous things for our future. I worry that this quote speaks to an American archetype who would rather drink beer, watch the thursday night line-up, and suck down cheeseburgers than get out and vote, or write a letter to their Senator. It worries me that THIS sort of apathy is what breeds the kind of animosity America has seen in recent years from other nations.
I'm not sure who this is pointed to, or what it aims to change. I do know It's going to make me think a little harder about what I can do to improve the world in which I live. I may not be able to change all of the bad things in the world, but I can find someone who is doing something truly good, and help them do that.
Who is this piece of propaganda speaking to? What does it hope to achieve? I imagine some twenty-something revolutionary spraypainting in the dead of night feeling very clever at his ability to move people to action. It makes me think of a quote I encountered from Ghandi (no clue as to the context) "It doesn't matter what you do. only that you do it."
On one hand I like the empowerment offered by this little piece of graffiti. There is an implication here that even a single voice has the power to save lives, that the enforcing of change starts with taking interest, and that even by analyzing one's apathy a system of change is being imposed. This quote becomes a challenge to right a wrong, to involve yourself in the world around you. I think this is an important idea to grapple with. One can not be both apathetic and involved, and so by taking an active interest in something you become powerful.
On the other hand, there are implications which concern me. Is there truly such a wide spread lack of interest in the human condition that people are dying? Is this pointed at our voices or our lifestyles? I have heard it said that my generation is classifiable by our apathetic attitudes. It would stand to reason, in a democratic society, that crops of coming-of-age-voters who don't care, could mean dangerous things for our future. I worry that this quote speaks to an American archetype who would rather drink beer, watch the thursday night line-up, and suck down cheeseburgers than get out and vote, or write a letter to their Senator. It worries me that THIS sort of apathy is what breeds the kind of animosity America has seen in recent years from other nations.
I'm not sure who this is pointed to, or what it aims to change. I do know It's going to make me think a little harder about what I can do to improve the world in which I live. I may not be able to change all of the bad things in the world, but I can find someone who is doing something truly good, and help them do that.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
This Orchid Won't Grow Itself
I spend two afternoons a week tutoring a young girl named Heather. She is what they qualify as a "special needs" student. I object to this term because I feel like every child has special needs. Every living thing has special needs. My dogs will not live if I care for them the same way I care for my orchids. It just doesn't work that way.
This particular student has been diagnosed as ADD and ADHD. I'm sure that this is a very real condition for people that struggle with it, but as an outsider I feel skeptical. This young girl does not seem to hear anything from the adults around her except: "CALM DOWN!! StOp ThAt! and GO sit DOWN!" She is ten years old and is barely capable of reading and writing a complete sentence. Her caretakers take enough interest to seek out my help two days a week, but admit to being too impatient to help her study everyday. She does not play any sports, and seems to have no inclination towards running, jumping, skipping, or other standard kid fare. She does have a propensity for screaming, yelling, laughing, picking at, playing with, and generally reserving all negative attention in her immediate environment. Her biggest motivation in working with me seems to be making the whole event stop; although, half way through our sessions I can begin to see the desire to get the correct answers set in. As long as she thinks she can get off of the hook, she decries any attempt with "I Don't Know." When she sees that I won't accept that answer, she usually "knows" quite readily.
Today was a particularly trying session. Every single task was met with a general groaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling into their sockets fit. Every single answer was scribbled on the page with such angst that it seemed as though this must be a studied technique. When I had the gall to suggest we go over her spelling in preperation for her test, you would have thought I was sending her to prison. I found myself chasing her around my apartment, crawling around on the floor, hanging upside down on my couch, and performing a three ring circus to keep her with me. The result was a girl who consistently fails her spelling test, working out the sounds and spelling the words. By the end of our spelling review I was exhausted. She seemed ready to run a marathon. As an experiment, I challenged her to a race around the block, which she adamantly refused.
I found myself wondering: Are ADD and ADHD easy ways out on good old fashioned parenting? Why isn't this child spending that valuable energy in some extremely physical activity? What would happen if someone just spent the time to get her attention, and help her process the information she needs to learn? Why is it considered abnormal for a child to be uninterested in sitting still and thinking? Why wouldn't a young person be distracted by EVERYTHING? I'm not sure there's a point where life ever stops feeling new and disorienting. At least she's present and involved.
I recognize that many people may read this and feel as though I'm being insensitive to a condition that affects many people. Perhaps I just don't understand. Explaining what I go through when I suffer a depression that is chemical and not situational, is nearly impossible if the explainee has never felt it. I guess that's part of my point. I feel like it's less important to name and excuse our shortcomings, struggles, and limitations, and more important to identify our special needs and help them get met.
We all need cultivation, and caretaking. It is the instinct that coagulates people into families of varying shapes, sizes, and functionalities. Every person around you is hoping that someone will come along that will recognize their individual needs, and help them grow. We are each a rare species of orchid shooting our root systems into this dizzying earth, praying for the correct nutrients and cool water. We all reach for sources of light and warmth. I'd like to think that every human being gets to spend at least one full season in bloom.
I suppose that the true irony is that we all have the choice to be both orchid. . . and cultivator.
This particular student has been diagnosed as ADD and ADHD. I'm sure that this is a very real condition for people that struggle with it, but as an outsider I feel skeptical. This young girl does not seem to hear anything from the adults around her except: "CALM DOWN!! StOp ThAt! and GO sit DOWN!" She is ten years old and is barely capable of reading and writing a complete sentence. Her caretakers take enough interest to seek out my help two days a week, but admit to being too impatient to help her study everyday. She does not play any sports, and seems to have no inclination towards running, jumping, skipping, or other standard kid fare. She does have a propensity for screaming, yelling, laughing, picking at, playing with, and generally reserving all negative attention in her immediate environment. Her biggest motivation in working with me seems to be making the whole event stop; although, half way through our sessions I can begin to see the desire to get the correct answers set in. As long as she thinks she can get off of the hook, she decries any attempt with "I Don't Know." When she sees that I won't accept that answer, she usually "knows" quite readily.
Today was a particularly trying session. Every single task was met with a general groaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling into their sockets fit. Every single answer was scribbled on the page with such angst that it seemed as though this must be a studied technique. When I had the gall to suggest we go over her spelling in preperation for her test, you would have thought I was sending her to prison. I found myself chasing her around my apartment, crawling around on the floor, hanging upside down on my couch, and performing a three ring circus to keep her with me. The result was a girl who consistently fails her spelling test, working out the sounds and spelling the words. By the end of our spelling review I was exhausted. She seemed ready to run a marathon. As an experiment, I challenged her to a race around the block, which she adamantly refused.
I found myself wondering: Are ADD and ADHD easy ways out on good old fashioned parenting? Why isn't this child spending that valuable energy in some extremely physical activity? What would happen if someone just spent the time to get her attention, and help her process the information she needs to learn? Why is it considered abnormal for a child to be uninterested in sitting still and thinking? Why wouldn't a young person be distracted by EVERYTHING? I'm not sure there's a point where life ever stops feeling new and disorienting. At least she's present and involved.
I recognize that many people may read this and feel as though I'm being insensitive to a condition that affects many people. Perhaps I just don't understand. Explaining what I go through when I suffer a depression that is chemical and not situational, is nearly impossible if the explainee has never felt it. I guess that's part of my point. I feel like it's less important to name and excuse our shortcomings, struggles, and limitations, and more important to identify our special needs and help them get met.
We all need cultivation, and caretaking. It is the instinct that coagulates people into families of varying shapes, sizes, and functionalities. Every person around you is hoping that someone will come along that will recognize their individual needs, and help them grow. We are each a rare species of orchid shooting our root systems into this dizzying earth, praying for the correct nutrients and cool water. We all reach for sources of light and warmth. I'd like to think that every human being gets to spend at least one full season in bloom.
I suppose that the true irony is that we all have the choice to be both orchid. . . and cultivator.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Matrix Personality Quiz
You are The Oracle, from "The Matrix."
Wise, kind, honest- is there anything slightly
negative about you? You are genuinely
supportive of others. Careful not to let people
take advantage of you, though.
What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
The Man With The Iridescent Purple Umbrella
A small victory for the civil, thinking, evolving, educated sector of the human condition was won today. When the right wing organization arrived at Mepham High School to protest the propogation of gay youth, they were severely out numbered by the community members in support of progress. Perhaps the numbers are in our favor.
Meanwhile, I found myself at an audition, where I met a lovely gentleman carrying an iridescent purple umbrella. Which is pretty awesome if you ask me. So I told him I thought so; to which, he responded by explaining he had bought it thinking it was blue. "And your umbrella has been laughing at you ever since" I said. "Yeah, It's been begging for me to get fag-bashed everywhere I go." He said.
Wait a minute!
Is that what does it? Is the sheer audacity of a human with a penis carrying something as (pardon the cliche adjective here) fabulous as an iridescent purple umbrella, the very core beginning of the kind of hate that makes people commit unthinkable brutalities against him? When did such a minute expression of one's character become a life and death choice? What does that mean for people who feel free to explore and express themselves without censure? The beauty of freedom is choice. The ability to make choices is the foundation of this great country. Yet somewhere within this eco-system of culture a different message is being bred. There is a dangerous undercurrent amongst Americans which seems to say:
"Be homogonized, or be victimized!"
"Explore the freedom of being exactly like everybody else!"
What exactly makes a persons individuality so terryfying that people feel the need to squash it? The obvious answers that pop up first are fear, jealousy, and ignorance but somehow that's not enough.
Perhaps if you look around and see that everyone is just like you then you find your self infallable. Perhaps we live in a culture where people feel so lost that they need to identify themselves entirely through qualifiable statements like "normal."
I am perfectly happy to look around and note the variances posessed by myself and the people around me. I can't fathom a world in which every unique quality was supressed. Tonight I make a toast to the things that make us all different, and I nod my hat to the man with the iridescent purple umbrella.
Meanwhile, I found myself at an audition, where I met a lovely gentleman carrying an iridescent purple umbrella. Which is pretty awesome if you ask me. So I told him I thought so; to which, he responded by explaining he had bought it thinking it was blue. "And your umbrella has been laughing at you ever since" I said. "Yeah, It's been begging for me to get fag-bashed everywhere I go." He said.
Wait a minute!
Is that what does it? Is the sheer audacity of a human with a penis carrying something as (pardon the cliche adjective here) fabulous as an iridescent purple umbrella, the very core beginning of the kind of hate that makes people commit unthinkable brutalities against him? When did such a minute expression of one's character become a life and death choice? What does that mean for people who feel free to explore and express themselves without censure? The beauty of freedom is choice. The ability to make choices is the foundation of this great country. Yet somewhere within this eco-system of culture a different message is being bred. There is a dangerous undercurrent amongst Americans which seems to say:
"Be homogonized, or be victimized!"
"Explore the freedom of being exactly like everybody else!"
What exactly makes a persons individuality so terryfying that people feel the need to squash it? The obvious answers that pop up first are fear, jealousy, and ignorance but somehow that's not enough.
Perhaps if you look around and see that everyone is just like you then you find your self infallable. Perhaps we live in a culture where people feel so lost that they need to identify themselves entirely through qualifiable statements like "normal."
I am perfectly happy to look around and note the variances posessed by myself and the people around me. I can't fathom a world in which every unique quality was supressed. Tonight I make a toast to the things that make us all different, and I nod my hat to the man with the iridescent purple umbrella.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
An Extra Hour
Today I gained an hour. Although some of my clocks have not yet been informed. I think I gain a strange sense of piece when my house is living in multiple time zones. It gives me the sense that time is irrelavent, but as I sit here decompressing from a lazy and pleasant day the dominant thought is that "every second is unbelievably precious." I want to believe that I honor that truth, but I know that I don't.
For an hour today, the sun cascaded gracefully behind the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. She dragged her train of light behind her, which seperated and unforled in splashes of crimson and lavender. The sea was so dazzled by this display that she blushed and hid her blues. She turned her endless blue to glass, and sprayed arias against the shore as she mourned the passing of her beloved sun. And just as it seemed the ocean was inconsolable, the soft light of a waxing moon reached out with a thousand fingers and placed her gently on the shores. But I was not there to see it.
In every reach of this earth the dramas will play themselves out by moonlight, by star-shine, and by sunburst. Some of these tales will be projected on the panorama of the fall sky, while others' stage will be as small and heartwrenching as the glimmer in a young child's eye. Sometime's I think the truest secret of this journey is to spend as much time acting in them as watching. To spend as much time changing your piece of the world as marvelling at the majesty of the creature that is the universe. I tell myself that the true secret of the whole mystery lies within the risks we take, and that it is the balance between the watching and the doing that will give us the wisdom to know our course.
Any fool can harden themselves into a state of ignorant bliss. It is no triumph to stop watching, stop caring, stop reaching. There is no glory in hiding, no reward in settling, and no hope to be found in in-action. No answers are given to those who do not ask questions.
And so I ask:
"What will you do with your hour?"
I will love the people that teach me love. I will let them know it. I will raise my dogs to know that they are safe. I will invest in the mind of a child who only needs a compass for the roads she will travel. I will grow an orchid, and spend hours delighting in nature's opulence when it blooms. I will listen to music which makes me feel hopeful. I will write a poem, call a friend, watch a sunset, read a book, smoke cigarrettes with my neighbors, paint, run, scream, dance and bake a chocolate cake.
But I will not contribute to HATE.
So when I close my eyes to go to sleep tonight and dream of all the things I will do tomorrow. I will spend my extra hour praying for people like Fred Phelps, who are so afraid of the beauty that might be around them, of the love that they might experience, and of the growth that they might feel that they feel compelled to torture people who have already suffered enough. I will pray for the children who they will raise in an ecosystem of hatred. I will pray for the families of victims who will only have their scabs picked open and their pride damaged by picketts and screaming. I will hope that ignorance and hatred does not leave any further scars on the families of Mepham High School...
...and I will be winking up at the stars. Because, If there's a heaven, Matthew Sheppard is in it, and he is baking a chocolate cake.
For an hour today, the sun cascaded gracefully behind the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. She dragged her train of light behind her, which seperated and unforled in splashes of crimson and lavender. The sea was so dazzled by this display that she blushed and hid her blues. She turned her endless blue to glass, and sprayed arias against the shore as she mourned the passing of her beloved sun. And just as it seemed the ocean was inconsolable, the soft light of a waxing moon reached out with a thousand fingers and placed her gently on the shores. But I was not there to see it.
In every reach of this earth the dramas will play themselves out by moonlight, by star-shine, and by sunburst. Some of these tales will be projected on the panorama of the fall sky, while others' stage will be as small and heartwrenching as the glimmer in a young child's eye. Sometime's I think the truest secret of this journey is to spend as much time acting in them as watching. To spend as much time changing your piece of the world as marvelling at the majesty of the creature that is the universe. I tell myself that the true secret of the whole mystery lies within the risks we take, and that it is the balance between the watching and the doing that will give us the wisdom to know our course.
Any fool can harden themselves into a state of ignorant bliss. It is no triumph to stop watching, stop caring, stop reaching. There is no glory in hiding, no reward in settling, and no hope to be found in in-action. No answers are given to those who do not ask questions.
And so I ask:
"What will you do with your hour?"
I will love the people that teach me love. I will let them know it. I will raise my dogs to know that they are safe. I will invest in the mind of a child who only needs a compass for the roads she will travel. I will grow an orchid, and spend hours delighting in nature's opulence when it blooms. I will listen to music which makes me feel hopeful. I will write a poem, call a friend, watch a sunset, read a book, smoke cigarrettes with my neighbors, paint, run, scream, dance and bake a chocolate cake.
But I will not contribute to HATE.
So when I close my eyes to go to sleep tonight and dream of all the things I will do tomorrow. I will spend my extra hour praying for people like Fred Phelps, who are so afraid of the beauty that might be around them, of the love that they might experience, and of the growth that they might feel that they feel compelled to torture people who have already suffered enough. I will pray for the children who they will raise in an ecosystem of hatred. I will pray for the families of victims who will only have their scabs picked open and their pride damaged by picketts and screaming. I will hope that ignorance and hatred does not leave any further scars on the families of Mepham High School...
...and I will be winking up at the stars. Because, If there's a heaven, Matthew Sheppard is in it, and he is baking a chocolate cake.
Good Morning Technology
Good Morning Technology!
Good Morning America!
I have never kept a formal journal. I saw Doogie Howser type sacharin sweet messages full of Hallmark wisdom each night before bed, and honestly. . . it warmed the very cockles of my sentimental heart. Last night I heard that a dear friend of mine had been Blogging while on a trip to Moscow (where he was no doubt busy being a genius.) I began to search for his blogs, but became fascinated with what that meant. I decided that perhaps in the face of a shifting, changing, technological society, there are perhaps a wealth of merits to the practice of publishing one's thoughts. My hopes are unclear to me at this very moment, but as most of my endeavors I imagine that they have something to do with having a voice that gets heard. I am a member of a generation who has not developed a voice. When I open my doors and windows... When I step out into the streets... When I silence the critic within... I hear screaming.
What are we screaming for?
Leadership?
Revolution?
Revelations?
Answers?
Poetry?
I may never be considered one of the great voices of my generation, but in the posts that follow, I am hoping to find my voice. Perhaps it will speak to you.
Good Morning America!
I have never kept a formal journal. I saw Doogie Howser type sacharin sweet messages full of Hallmark wisdom each night before bed, and honestly. . . it warmed the very cockles of my sentimental heart. Last night I heard that a dear friend of mine had been Blogging while on a trip to Moscow (where he was no doubt busy being a genius.) I began to search for his blogs, but became fascinated with what that meant. I decided that perhaps in the face of a shifting, changing, technological society, there are perhaps a wealth of merits to the practice of publishing one's thoughts. My hopes are unclear to me at this very moment, but as most of my endeavors I imagine that they have something to do with having a voice that gets heard. I am a member of a generation who has not developed a voice. When I open my doors and windows... When I step out into the streets... When I silence the critic within... I hear screaming.
What are we screaming for?
Leadership?
Revolution?
Revelations?
Answers?
Poetry?
I may never be considered one of the great voices of my generation, but in the posts that follow, I am hoping to find my voice. Perhaps it will speak to you.
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