Pt. 1: The New Garde [sic: somehow 'Avant' doesn't do it for this...but 'new' does...]
I had the privilege last night of attending Summer Shapiro's Kinds of Light at The Tank as a reviewer. This is part of The Tank's Flint & Tinder series. I love the fact that I can review stuff I think I will love for this blog and thank all makers of work who allow me to do so. This was one of those nights that I live for in the theater - when you go to see someone you don't know at all, just based on a hunch and get treated to a breath of truly fresh air.
At first I was skeptical, the overenthusiastic front of house speech, the strings above the set reminiscent of Richard Foreman (see 'Old Garde' review of Old Fashioned Prostitutes below), etc., etc. But then there was the simple movement that showed us that Shapiro had been on the stage all along (I am not going to describe this moment because I loved all her physical surprises and don't want to give them away - I want instead to intrigue you into going to see the show). She is basically a clown, but in a new way - she seamlessly embodies elegance and clumsiness, a desire to control everything with the comic-tragedy-joy-silliness-awkwardness of being human. I have seen old-school clowning and new-school clowning, but I've never seen anyone take these elements and create such a wholly human-scale performance.
Shapiro creates her tour-de-force in a small space using the elements of: paper, water, a chair and table with wheels, string, an old-school radio, a watering can, a bucket, an umbrella, a simple chandelier, her astonishing physical abilities that are used with skill and simplicity, a preternatural humility and the fact that she survived cancer at a very young age. I don't know for a fact how much her cancer fight was a motor behind the development of this piece, which she started beforehand, but it seems to inform it.
I say 'seems' because like all good clowns, she uses very few words. She conveys to us her self, frustrations, joys, confusions, sorrows, fears, anger and simple happiness through her movements and interactions with the set, designed beautifully by Mary Olin Geiger. She also integrates her work with the sound and music of Sean Brennam and lights of Simon Harding. I mention the designers because there is something of the visual arts in her performance as much as theater. She becomes in many ways a moving installation, while - crucially - always maintaining her human - all too human - connection to herself and the audience.
My only quibble with this piece is that it seemed in some ways a little too tentative in places and I think it can be longer. The ending seemed a bit abrupt and there were some astonishingly beautiful moments upon which I feel she could have expanded. For all of her boldness in her presence, there seems to be a little hesitancy in taking up her full space and owning her full power. I know some of this is on purpose, and the tentativeness of some of her movements and images are meant to convey this awkwardness we face attempting to communicate with one another and ourselves.
I do hope, however, Shapiro continues to develop this piece even further, because I believe it can grow from a beautiful sketch into something a little bit more assured, without losing the charm of her presence as "just one of us." While she is one of us, she is also extraordinarily talented and I look forward to watching her work develop over time.
Pt. 2: The Old Garde [sic - see above]
Richard Foreman's Old Fashioned Prostitutes (a true romance) is the return of the Old Master to His True Form at The Public Theater. I love Foreman's work. Foreman like The Who (for you young'uns out there - The Who was a band that kept saying they were doing their last tour Ever year after year but then kept returning - to wildly enthusiastic fans: see in re: Tommy etc.) keeps threatening to abandon us all for writing or film or whatever but then comes back to do another show - eventually. I am glad he does.
Foreman has created over the course of 45 years (count 'em kids: 45!) a language in and for the theater that has predated and lay the ground for so many of us since who have experimented with language, gesture, design in any way that is not linear narrative. I cannot talk about Foreman without referring to my own work, because his has been so influential. I cannot pretend to be an 'objective critic' (whatever that is and for the record I don't think one exists). Instead, I can only say that I truly appreciate his willingness to bare his soul without embellishment, for the benefit of the rest of us.
This may seem like an odd way to describe his work to those new to it who, like me when I first saw one of his pieces, may have the thoughtful response: What the fuck is That? But, when you surrender your expectations for a coherent narrative and allow yourself to follow the logic of each movement and moment responding, resonating off of one another, you will hear the music that is specific to a Foreman piece. It's easier these days. The world has caught up to him. Our way of seeing and experiencing the world, thanks to the internet, 'smart' phones, Twitter, etc. is so fragmented that in many ways, a Foreman play seems downright peaceful and coherent by contrast.
Old Fashioned Prostitutes (the name itself is wistful and kind of knowing about his place in the 'garde') feels like a Bach concerto more than - say - Ornette Coleman. It's less fragmented than his earlier work, more elegiac and - as I have argued before about all his work - quite emotional. The knock on Foreman is that it's all intellectual, and I think that's wrong. He's a smart dude, there's tons of philosophy knocking around, but there is also usually a love story in the mix - however oddly framed and philosophically loaded - sometimes between a man and a woman, sometimes between two men and in this case between two men and two women with the intervention of a lovely clown-like Michelin-man seeming figure. Because the main characters are named Samuel and Suzie I could not help but think of Samuel Beckett and his wife (Suzanne). Also there are references to the philosopher Berkeley, whose name is pronounced like Barclay, which is Beckett's middle name...but I could be wrong...the beauty of Foreman's work is you can do all the guessing you want and you know in the end that is all you are doing: guessing.
And, it's funny. It's OK if you laugh, people! The anxiety that audiences seem to have when watching Foreman's work keeps them from enjoying the obvious vaudevillian humor from moment to moment. Like Summer Shapiro, Foreman is deeply aware of the tragicomedy of being human. He is older so there is a sense of mortality, some regret, some longing, the dread of desire and fear/hope of death in his work. Perhaps because Shapiro had her own brush with mortality, I see the connection - that and the string... Foreman's work is fully matured, he is a master, in the best sense of the word. My advice to any young theater folk out there: go see both now. See where it starts, see where it goes. Admire a vision that has been honed and one that is in the process of being born. We live in NYC. We are lucky. Take advantage of it!
Pt. 3: The Ancient Garde
Before all of this was Cambodian classical dance or Robam Borann. I was able to catch some examples of this at BAM, The Legend of Apsara Mera choreographed by Princess Devi, the daughter of King Sihanouk (the dude that was deposed by the Khmer Rouge - see in re: The Killing Fields for history on that). This form of dance is based on Hindu mythology and bears some resemblance to South Indian classical dance, but has its own specific feel.
Watching the slowness and precision of these mythological tales being embodied by the dancers made me think of when Artaud first saw Balinese dancers and how impactful that was on his vision of what theater could be - something outside of small naturalism, living rooms and suchlike. There is a much larger horizon here, a vision of more cosmic rather than human life cycles. There is also an implicit argument embedded in these forms for monarchs and human forms of godlike power, so you can see how any good revolutionary might have a problem with it.
However, all politics aside, the dancing was beautiful and there were moments of sheer transcendence. It made me think that in our postmodern haste to throw out all the grand narratives, etc., we may have lost something. That while I have no interest in having a Monarch or bringing back The Great Man of History, etc., we somehow need to allow for awe, for movements that remind us of our connection to the universe and larger spiritual principles.
Richard Foreman's work has done that for me in the past - throwing off material concerns for the more interesting ways in which one's mind can piece together the world outside of obvious causal constraints. Shapiro's work - in moments - begins to hit this mark - one moment swirling in her chair and table and another with a sheet and an umbrella (you need to go see her to know what I mean by this).
So here is where we are: the oldest form/s of dance-theater - with a shrine on the stage - an homage to pre-existing gods, Vishnu being courted overly. The secular-sacred shrines of Richard Foreman - his sets, with Kabbala-inspired signs and imagery - talking to an invisible Witness that he believes exists. The body of Summer Shapiro as witness to where we are now - tentative, anxious, lonely, alive, joyous, afraid - wanting to live.
Not bad for 8 days of theater-dance in NYC. Not bad at all.
Welcome to my blog..
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Springtime in Inwood...
Just some photos...it's a lovely time of year up here.
Just this because....
Just this because....
Monday, May 6, 2013
Spring, creativity, Jung and missing my beloved
Spring is here! A number of gorgeous days in NYC, pink blossoms, green leaves beginning to emerge, white flowers and my favorite: lilacs. Tulips of many colors and all kinds of animals mating (seriously, if you walk in the woods, you can't miss it - squirrels, birds, whatever...). I will end this blog post with some photos of the Flowering...After so many summers that came on fast with little spring, many of us are delighting in this far gentler process. Every day without air conditioning is a good day.
I am finally beginning to wrap my mind around this larger theatrical project (...whatever God is), which is exciting because I haven't even been able to conceptualize in this way in a long time. I'm beginning to see how long it's taken me to get my creativity back...for many reasons. But, I'm glad I didn't try to force a solution because gradually it's returning.
Speaking of lilacs, I will happily be going back up to Canada in a couple weeks to go to the Royal Botanical Gardens with John where there are apparently over 700 species of lilacs! This is apparently the largest collection in the world. So, will be with my beloved amongst my favorite flowers. Nice. Being apart from him is grating on me now. I can sometimes manage to focus on my writing enough or taking walks, hanging out with friends, seeing shows, etc. but no matter what the lack of him is ever-present. I suppose this is the flip-side of loving someone so much. But I'll take it. Still astonished we even found each other...and we are getting closer to the time we can spend more time than not together...just have to keep sorting through the many details to make that happen...in the meantime astonished I feel held by him even in his absence.
I've been having dreams lately, many of which have dealt with animals, which is not common for me. In Canada, I actually had a bear dream (!), then back in NYC a dream of very colorful fish that had wings and were very soft to the touch. Another dream included a wolf, perhaps a dire wolf (prehistoric, now extinct) because of its size that was butting its nose against a door inside a house, and I wasn't sure if I should be afraid or not. Recently, a dream about bees, one with big dragonfly wings that stung me, because I didn't think it was a bee. I kept waiting to see if the sting would be poisonous in some way, but it never even swelled. Then there were a couple more bees, including one I tried to let go outside, but kept trying to wrap its legs around my finger.
After the wolf dream, I started reading Jung again... Memories, Dreams, Reflections, a collection of his later thoughts. He speaks of the unconscious as this productive force that we touch in dreams and at times of intuition and premonition. What amazed me is the similarity of this thoughts to William James' insights (which predate his by about 50 years) in regard to how we can be prejudiced against these experiences in the name of rationality. Jung was convinced that by only listening to our conscious minds, we limit ourselves and our understanding, because the conscious mind can only understand a proximate, limited level of reality. He's very clear that there are other dimensions only the unconscious can reach. But, and this is what makes him a genius, he also knows that without the conscious mind to be able to articulate this experience in some way - our finite selves in other words - then this unconscious material ends up as amorphous as The Infinite and The One...which elude us entirely.
I love going back to these people who predate the more over-heated, polysyllabic philosophizing of postmodernism onward, to discover such humility and insight.
This is helping a lot with the new play and affecting it. Jung now making an appearance along with James...bringing in more dream material...not in a hooey oh wow isn't that weird kinda way but instead as these doors into something larger than our material world...but that reflects back.
Another idea Jung has, that I love, inspired by dream material, is that when people die, they look to the living for answers to things. That death does not put you in some all-knowing realm, but if 'you' exist in death, it's somewhere approximate to where you were when you died. He was talking about this near the end of his life and said that perhaps you have to be near the end of your life to feel comfortable talking about the hereafter, that while he could not prove or disprove life after death, that was no reason not to take hints, intuitions, dream material, etc. as a way to conceptualize this. He mourns the lack of fables in the world and our hesitancy to mythologize, which he believes makes us poorer in spirit consequently.
I've known about Jung's basic ideas for many years, but this later writing I find so moving and human scale, moving most likely because so human scale. I respond to people when they speak from the first person, less attempting to argue an entire methodology but instead speaking from experience. Experience informed by knowledge and years of work of course, but nonetheless experience. There is air and space in these thoughts.
Speaking of air and space, below are some images of NYC in spring:
I am finally beginning to wrap my mind around this larger theatrical project (...whatever God is), which is exciting because I haven't even been able to conceptualize in this way in a long time. I'm beginning to see how long it's taken me to get my creativity back...for many reasons. But, I'm glad I didn't try to force a solution because gradually it's returning.
Speaking of lilacs, I will happily be going back up to Canada in a couple weeks to go to the Royal Botanical Gardens with John where there are apparently over 700 species of lilacs! This is apparently the largest collection in the world. So, will be with my beloved amongst my favorite flowers. Nice. Being apart from him is grating on me now. I can sometimes manage to focus on my writing enough or taking walks, hanging out with friends, seeing shows, etc. but no matter what the lack of him is ever-present. I suppose this is the flip-side of loving someone so much. But I'll take it. Still astonished we even found each other...and we are getting closer to the time we can spend more time than not together...just have to keep sorting through the many details to make that happen...in the meantime astonished I feel held by him even in his absence.
I've been having dreams lately, many of which have dealt with animals, which is not common for me. In Canada, I actually had a bear dream (!), then back in NYC a dream of very colorful fish that had wings and were very soft to the touch. Another dream included a wolf, perhaps a dire wolf (prehistoric, now extinct) because of its size that was butting its nose against a door inside a house, and I wasn't sure if I should be afraid or not. Recently, a dream about bees, one with big dragonfly wings that stung me, because I didn't think it was a bee. I kept waiting to see if the sting would be poisonous in some way, but it never even swelled. Then there were a couple more bees, including one I tried to let go outside, but kept trying to wrap its legs around my finger.
After the wolf dream, I started reading Jung again... Memories, Dreams, Reflections, a collection of his later thoughts. He speaks of the unconscious as this productive force that we touch in dreams and at times of intuition and premonition. What amazed me is the similarity of this thoughts to William James' insights (which predate his by about 50 years) in regard to how we can be prejudiced against these experiences in the name of rationality. Jung was convinced that by only listening to our conscious minds, we limit ourselves and our understanding, because the conscious mind can only understand a proximate, limited level of reality. He's very clear that there are other dimensions only the unconscious can reach. But, and this is what makes him a genius, he also knows that without the conscious mind to be able to articulate this experience in some way - our finite selves in other words - then this unconscious material ends up as amorphous as The Infinite and The One...which elude us entirely.
I love going back to these people who predate the more over-heated, polysyllabic philosophizing of postmodernism onward, to discover such humility and insight.
This is helping a lot with the new play and affecting it. Jung now making an appearance along with James...bringing in more dream material...not in a hooey oh wow isn't that weird kinda way but instead as these doors into something larger than our material world...but that reflects back.
Another idea Jung has, that I love, inspired by dream material, is that when people die, they look to the living for answers to things. That death does not put you in some all-knowing realm, but if 'you' exist in death, it's somewhere approximate to where you were when you died. He was talking about this near the end of his life and said that perhaps you have to be near the end of your life to feel comfortable talking about the hereafter, that while he could not prove or disprove life after death, that was no reason not to take hints, intuitions, dream material, etc. as a way to conceptualize this. He mourns the lack of fables in the world and our hesitancy to mythologize, which he believes makes us poorer in spirit consequently.
I've known about Jung's basic ideas for many years, but this later writing I find so moving and human scale, moving most likely because so human scale. I respond to people when they speak from the first person, less attempting to argue an entire methodology but instead speaking from experience. Experience informed by knowledge and years of work of course, but nonetheless experience. There is air and space in these thoughts.
Speaking of air and space, below are some images of NYC in spring:
 |
| the lilacs of 204th Street |
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| Inwood street garden |
 |
| cherry blossoms in Central Park |
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| Saturday in the Park.... |
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Boston, politics, writing, love
First, please note that many of the things I hoped would not happen in my last post regarding Boston marathon bombing are either (a) are happening or (b) are gearing up to happen.
Having said that, saw a heartening stat that most Americans now would rather risk terrorism than give up more liberties. Good sign. However, rampant racism and using this horrendous event to try to thwart immigration reform is just inane. Plus the fact that we can't pass gun control legislation in this country, even now, because politicians are bought and paid for by NRA and are therefore voting against the vast majority of Americans is equally depressing.
Every time I think politics in this country has hit a nadir, it manages to surpass itself...again. Thanks for the memories 'legislators'. Sigh. Anyone else in NYC up for trying to secede?
So, there's that.
Then there's the fact that I had an informal reading on Saturday at my apartment of my newest stage text (a part of my larger William James project:...whatever God is) and that rocked the house. By that I mean the actors rocked the house. The text needs some work...but seeing it, hearing it and getting feedback from these great actors and some trusted friends, made it Very clear what needs to happen next and what decisions I need to make about development, etc... So, thank you Andrea, Marietta, Jeannie, Julie and Nicole - with valuable assists from Paul and Paulette! So great to have other voices and bodies in the room besides me...a relief actually.
I'll be applying for some development time/grants in hopes of being able to create the piece, which I want to do in collaboration with others, because the themes of loss, transformation and spiritual experiences in relation thereto is something a lot of people share and I want to bring in others' experiences, in the same way James did in Varieties of Religious Experience, which I'm pillaging for this text (along with Book of Job)...James is a genius by the way, waaay ahead of his time, even preternaturally feminist in his ability to listen to and not pathologize female experience. In some ways his views were blinkered but - rarely for a philosopher in 1901-2 - not deaf to women's voices.
So, I'm rewriting that text now...
In other writing news, I thought I might have enough polished pages of my grandmother book to send to an agent who is interested in reading them, but first sent those pages to a trusted writing mentor, Jill, who gave me feedback I need to take on board first. At first I was sad (because while I fear I'm a fraud I always hope someone will tell me I shit gold), but then realized her suggestions were good and that I want to do something with this book that I have not thus far managed to do, namely, write something which is complex but also more accessible than my other work. So, I'm going to take suggestions from people, like her, who are excellent writers who have completed books that have been published, awarded, etc. Because they might know more than me (shock, horror).
My beloved Canadian and I are physically separated right now, which just sucks, but he should be able to come down to NYC again in time for my (gasp) 50th birthday, so that'll take the edge off...However, even separated, our love continues to grow, which is just wonderful, and I know that this love has a lot to do with the groundedness I feel in relation to my writing and creativity in general. Plus being back in NYC, which I always find grounding...though as I write this my eyelid is twitching a bit, so it all may be a giant illusion. However, whenever I'm away from New York, after a time I start getting unhappy, then very unhappy. I wish I loved another more peaceful place, but I don't...so that's that.
Spring is springing, green buds appearing, grass growing, little birds flying about, warm cool breezes lovely air...Inwood lovely. Pictures soon...
Having said that, saw a heartening stat that most Americans now would rather risk terrorism than give up more liberties. Good sign. However, rampant racism and using this horrendous event to try to thwart immigration reform is just inane. Plus the fact that we can't pass gun control legislation in this country, even now, because politicians are bought and paid for by NRA and are therefore voting against the vast majority of Americans is equally depressing.
Every time I think politics in this country has hit a nadir, it manages to surpass itself...again. Thanks for the memories 'legislators'. Sigh. Anyone else in NYC up for trying to secede?
So, there's that.
Then there's the fact that I had an informal reading on Saturday at my apartment of my newest stage text (a part of my larger William James project:...whatever God is) and that rocked the house. By that I mean the actors rocked the house. The text needs some work...but seeing it, hearing it and getting feedback from these great actors and some trusted friends, made it Very clear what needs to happen next and what decisions I need to make about development, etc... So, thank you Andrea, Marietta, Jeannie, Julie and Nicole - with valuable assists from Paul and Paulette! So great to have other voices and bodies in the room besides me...a relief actually.
I'll be applying for some development time/grants in hopes of being able to create the piece, which I want to do in collaboration with others, because the themes of loss, transformation and spiritual experiences in relation thereto is something a lot of people share and I want to bring in others' experiences, in the same way James did in Varieties of Religious Experience, which I'm pillaging for this text (along with Book of Job)...James is a genius by the way, waaay ahead of his time, even preternaturally feminist in his ability to listen to and not pathologize female experience. In some ways his views were blinkered but - rarely for a philosopher in 1901-2 - not deaf to women's voices.
So, I'm rewriting that text now...
In other writing news, I thought I might have enough polished pages of my grandmother book to send to an agent who is interested in reading them, but first sent those pages to a trusted writing mentor, Jill, who gave me feedback I need to take on board first. At first I was sad (because while I fear I'm a fraud I always hope someone will tell me I shit gold), but then realized her suggestions were good and that I want to do something with this book that I have not thus far managed to do, namely, write something which is complex but also more accessible than my other work. So, I'm going to take suggestions from people, like her, who are excellent writers who have completed books that have been published, awarded, etc. Because they might know more than me (shock, horror).
My beloved Canadian and I are physically separated right now, which just sucks, but he should be able to come down to NYC again in time for my (gasp) 50th birthday, so that'll take the edge off...However, even separated, our love continues to grow, which is just wonderful, and I know that this love has a lot to do with the groundedness I feel in relation to my writing and creativity in general. Plus being back in NYC, which I always find grounding...though as I write this my eyelid is twitching a bit, so it all may be a giant illusion. However, whenever I'm away from New York, after a time I start getting unhappy, then very unhappy. I wish I loved another more peaceful place, but I don't...so that's that.
Spring is springing, green buds appearing, grass growing, little birds flying about, warm cool breezes lovely air...Inwood lovely. Pictures soon...
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Requiem for Boston
Because I was in NYC for 9/11 and remember the stupid shit that was said and done by people from outside of our city on that day and for years to come (up to the present(, here are some things I hope for Boston tonight and for the next weeks and months to come:
Mostly, above all, that whatever happened at the Marathon finish line today is first and foremost seen as a human event where human beings were actually hurt and not as a political symbol to be used by anyone anywhere ever.
That there is not an instant theme song and name for the event that gets played over and over again on every goddamn network.
That images of carnage are not replayed every five minutes while reporters, lying, say they wish they did not have to show these images, when of course as everyone knows "if it bleeds, it leads." Please spare Boston the disingenuous shows of mock sympathy. And please spare your children and everyone else PTSD.
Please, no one outside of Boston write poetry about this and send it to your friends in Boston. Just don't do that.
Please, don't use this as a metaphor for some personal problem or existential angst in your own life. It isn't. It's an actual event that happened in real life to real people. It is not - I repeat - not a metaphor or a symbol for you or anyone else.
That you in Boston are allowed to grieve or do whatever you need to do the way you need to do it.
That whatever happened and whoever is found to be responsible, that this is not used as an excuse to execute hundreds or many thousands of other people.
That you can heal.
I am so so so sorry this happened to you. No one deserves this. No one. Anywhere. Ever.
Love and blessings,
a New Yorker
Mostly, above all, that whatever happened at the Marathon finish line today is first and foremost seen as a human event where human beings were actually hurt and not as a political symbol to be used by anyone anywhere ever.
That there is not an instant theme song and name for the event that gets played over and over again on every goddamn network.
That images of carnage are not replayed every five minutes while reporters, lying, say they wish they did not have to show these images, when of course as everyone knows "if it bleeds, it leads." Please spare Boston the disingenuous shows of mock sympathy. And please spare your children and everyone else PTSD.
Please, no one outside of Boston write poetry about this and send it to your friends in Boston. Just don't do that.
Please, don't use this as a metaphor for some personal problem or existential angst in your own life. It isn't. It's an actual event that happened in real life to real people. It is not - I repeat - not a metaphor or a symbol for you or anyone else.
That you in Boston are allowed to grieve or do whatever you need to do the way you need to do it.
That whatever happened and whoever is found to be responsible, that this is not used as an excuse to execute hundreds or many thousands of other people.
That you can heal.
I am so so so sorry this happened to you. No one deserves this. No one. Anywhere. Ever.
Love and blessings,
a New Yorker
Monday, April 15, 2013
Back in NYC just in time for sad anniversaries (or T.S. Eliot was right about April)
So, I'm back home in NYC and glad to be here though am missing John terribly. I will end this post with some photos from Brockville, because there were some truly spectacular sunsets and moments on the river.
But today and tomorrow are the hellacious anniversary days - the one-two punch of wedding anniversary-miscarriage - that I kind of dread. The day I was married to my soon-to-be-ex-husband (divorce papers wending their way through the weirdly-endless-considering-we-don't-disagree-on-anything British court system) in London was bright and sunny - full of hope - my pregnancy announced (we thought safely after 12 weeks), happy families and friends all around. There were the moments of weirdness with in-laws and such, but then when does that not happen?
There was the spotting of blood that night at the hotel and me thinking, hmmm. Then there was the train ride to Cornwall the next morning. There was a little bit of blood, then more...then more. I was freaking. We kept heading towards Cornwall on an endless train/bus excursion. What were we thinking? I wonder now. But on we went.
We arrive in drop dead gorgeous Cornwall and get to our self-catering place. I go to the bathroom and there is more blood and I am truly freaking. There is the emergency room. There is me looking out the window in the cab at the sunset on the ocean saying "It's so beautiful here" over and over again before we get there. There are the nurses looking sad. There is the brusque doctor. There is the weary sameness of it all for the professionals. Just go home, they say. And it'll either come out or it won't. We aren't really a hospital here. If you need a hospital you need to go to Truro. I despair. We go back to a place we don't live and I don't even have sanitary pads. Bill has to go upstairs and ask our landlord. The wife of the landlord sends down stuff with him and her sympathies. She too had a miscarriage.
I will discover this as time goes on - practically every woman you know who has been pregnant and/or has children has had a miscarriage. One in three pregnancies end in miscarriage. You don't find this out until you have one and join the silent grieving club. Why the silence? Why the shame? Why does no one Talk about it? Such a miasma of secret grieving. I wonder will women ever be on par with men until we get to grieve our losses as loudly and without shame? Soldiers die and everyone cries. Miscarriages happen and everyone is silent. It's a mistake, an accident, a sign of divine disapproval. Something did Not happen. You can Not conceive. Something is Wrong with You. There is the endless self-doubt - what did I Do Wrong?
There is the moment the little sac that should have become a baby comes out. There is the confusion about what it is. There is a lot of crying. I cry. Bill cries - something I've never experienced - his tears. There is so much fucking blood you cannot even imagine. And pain. So much pain. And despair. Then shock then some weird calm. Maybe I'll get pregnant again. It'll be OK. The next day the Virgina Tech mass shooting happens. All that is on TV is mass killing. The sun is out and it is relentlessly beautiful. I try to take hikes and pretend I'm OK because I'm afraid of being alone with my pain. But I am bleeding and bleeding. There are weeks and weeks of blood that follow and growing despair and more hospitals and hospitals and hospitals...for weeks, months, years...Much of this when alone because Bill is traveling for his work.
Then not getting pregnant again. Then there is the anger, growing, that I ever was given the hope that I could have a child at age 43-44. Then - insanely - there is the hope - sometimes it seems cruel - that I could get pregnant even now. There is desire and hope. That is all. My body will not cooperate. Cannot. Will not? What is it?
So many dysfunctions of shape of uterus and such, it's endless. And now? Now I am 49 about to turn 50. Who do I think I am to even try? Crazy of course. Going to an appointment with a gyn tomorrow to see how crazy. Weird coincidence that the appointment is 6 years to the day of the miscarriage.
Now, after all this, I have found my one true love, who I had always hoped existed but despaired did not but shockingly he does and in a weird twist of fate we have found one another - which is more than either of us dared to dream - but we are in fact 49 and 53. This means the chances of having a child are slim to none even though it's something we both want so much. Life is so strange and this is why I do believe T.S. Eliot was right when he wrote "April is the cruelest month." Because the great beauty that arrives and all the hopes that come with it cannot last forever. All bright light casts a shadow. That doesn't mean the beauty is a lie or the hope is a lie. It simply means that all great love sets us up for great loss, there's no way around that.
Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. I am deeply grateful to have found real love, to know what it is in this life and experience all that it means. I would not trade it for anything. Speaking of which, below is a hilarious photo that John took of us with a timed camera. That is our last night at the B&B in Brockville.
So, yes, dark is the shadow side of light but on the other hand if I only look at that aspect, I lose the enjoyment of the light. So, once again, after allowing myself to be happy and having it yanked away so violently, I am allowing in the light again. With a big difference this time. The person who I'm letting in loves me unconditionally as I do him. Not only have I never been loved unconditionally before, I don't think I ever Have loved unconditionally either. It seems there is a symbiotic process here - or some kind of alchemy. Whatever it is, I'm grateful for it.
Plus, and this is the weirdest outgrowth of the time in Brockville, I am now having really good ideas about my grandmother book and am raring to go with it for the first time ever. John thinks it was research being in a small town and essentially being a 'mall wife' for 6 weeks. I was cooking and such. John was working at a mall. I did some writing but it did feel weirdly house wife-like. Also, I am not a small-town girl, so there was a sense of claustrophobia (not because of being with John but being in this small town where I could not do and be the things I can do and be in NYC).
So yes, the sense of compassion for my grandmothers' restricted lives is much greater and more experientially based, especially for my grandmother who I've had the hardest time cozying up to because she was so cold. A sense of judgment that has lifted and feeling instead her sense of necessity in keeping her shit under wraps and under control and how threatening anything that could elicit any real emotion (including classical music, anything out of order, Evangelical Baptism or a pubescent girl) was to her. So not only did I finish a draft of a play and apply to a bunch of places, I was also - without realizing it - feeling my way deeper into the book. This makes me very happy because it gives a sense of purpose to some time that had felt in the moment pretty drifty and vague...
Plus, there are pictures! Here's some of them...from my last days in Brockville. Because of exhaustion, I will let these images end this post:
But today and tomorrow are the hellacious anniversary days - the one-two punch of wedding anniversary-miscarriage - that I kind of dread. The day I was married to my soon-to-be-ex-husband (divorce papers wending their way through the weirdly-endless-considering-we-don't-disagree-on-anything British court system) in London was bright and sunny - full of hope - my pregnancy announced (we thought safely after 12 weeks), happy families and friends all around. There were the moments of weirdness with in-laws and such, but then when does that not happen?
There was the spotting of blood that night at the hotel and me thinking, hmmm. Then there was the train ride to Cornwall the next morning. There was a little bit of blood, then more...then more. I was freaking. We kept heading towards Cornwall on an endless train/bus excursion. What were we thinking? I wonder now. But on we went.
We arrive in drop dead gorgeous Cornwall and get to our self-catering place. I go to the bathroom and there is more blood and I am truly freaking. There is the emergency room. There is me looking out the window in the cab at the sunset on the ocean saying "It's so beautiful here" over and over again before we get there. There are the nurses looking sad. There is the brusque doctor. There is the weary sameness of it all for the professionals. Just go home, they say. And it'll either come out or it won't. We aren't really a hospital here. If you need a hospital you need to go to Truro. I despair. We go back to a place we don't live and I don't even have sanitary pads. Bill has to go upstairs and ask our landlord. The wife of the landlord sends down stuff with him and her sympathies. She too had a miscarriage.
I will discover this as time goes on - practically every woman you know who has been pregnant and/or has children has had a miscarriage. One in three pregnancies end in miscarriage. You don't find this out until you have one and join the silent grieving club. Why the silence? Why the shame? Why does no one Talk about it? Such a miasma of secret grieving. I wonder will women ever be on par with men until we get to grieve our losses as loudly and without shame? Soldiers die and everyone cries. Miscarriages happen and everyone is silent. It's a mistake, an accident, a sign of divine disapproval. Something did Not happen. You can Not conceive. Something is Wrong with You. There is the endless self-doubt - what did I Do Wrong?
There is the moment the little sac that should have become a baby comes out. There is the confusion about what it is. There is a lot of crying. I cry. Bill cries - something I've never experienced - his tears. There is so much fucking blood you cannot even imagine. And pain. So much pain. And despair. Then shock then some weird calm. Maybe I'll get pregnant again. It'll be OK. The next day the Virgina Tech mass shooting happens. All that is on TV is mass killing. The sun is out and it is relentlessly beautiful. I try to take hikes and pretend I'm OK because I'm afraid of being alone with my pain. But I am bleeding and bleeding. There are weeks and weeks of blood that follow and growing despair and more hospitals and hospitals and hospitals...for weeks, months, years...Much of this when alone because Bill is traveling for his work.
Then not getting pregnant again. Then there is the anger, growing, that I ever was given the hope that I could have a child at age 43-44. Then - insanely - there is the hope - sometimes it seems cruel - that I could get pregnant even now. There is desire and hope. That is all. My body will not cooperate. Cannot. Will not? What is it?
So many dysfunctions of shape of uterus and such, it's endless. And now? Now I am 49 about to turn 50. Who do I think I am to even try? Crazy of course. Going to an appointment with a gyn tomorrow to see how crazy. Weird coincidence that the appointment is 6 years to the day of the miscarriage.
Now, after all this, I have found my one true love, who I had always hoped existed but despaired did not but shockingly he does and in a weird twist of fate we have found one another - which is more than either of us dared to dream - but we are in fact 49 and 53. This means the chances of having a child are slim to none even though it's something we both want so much. Life is so strange and this is why I do believe T.S. Eliot was right when he wrote "April is the cruelest month." Because the great beauty that arrives and all the hopes that come with it cannot last forever. All bright light casts a shadow. That doesn't mean the beauty is a lie or the hope is a lie. It simply means that all great love sets us up for great loss, there's no way around that.
Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. I am deeply grateful to have found real love, to know what it is in this life and experience all that it means. I would not trade it for anything. Speaking of which, below is a hilarious photo that John took of us with a timed camera. That is our last night at the B&B in Brockville.
 |
| here we are laughing at our own jokes...someone has to.... |
So, yes, dark is the shadow side of light but on the other hand if I only look at that aspect, I lose the enjoyment of the light. So, once again, after allowing myself to be happy and having it yanked away so violently, I am allowing in the light again. With a big difference this time. The person who I'm letting in loves me unconditionally as I do him. Not only have I never been loved unconditionally before, I don't think I ever Have loved unconditionally either. It seems there is a symbiotic process here - or some kind of alchemy. Whatever it is, I'm grateful for it.
Plus, and this is the weirdest outgrowth of the time in Brockville, I am now having really good ideas about my grandmother book and am raring to go with it for the first time ever. John thinks it was research being in a small town and essentially being a 'mall wife' for 6 weeks. I was cooking and such. John was working at a mall. I did some writing but it did feel weirdly house wife-like. Also, I am not a small-town girl, so there was a sense of claustrophobia (not because of being with John but being in this small town where I could not do and be the things I can do and be in NYC).
So yes, the sense of compassion for my grandmothers' restricted lives is much greater and more experientially based, especially for my grandmother who I've had the hardest time cozying up to because she was so cold. A sense of judgment that has lifted and feeling instead her sense of necessity in keeping her shit under wraps and under control and how threatening anything that could elicit any real emotion (including classical music, anything out of order, Evangelical Baptism or a pubescent girl) was to her. So not only did I finish a draft of a play and apply to a bunch of places, I was also - without realizing it - feeling my way deeper into the book. This makes me very happy because it gives a sense of purpose to some time that had felt in the moment pretty drifty and vague...
Plus, there are pictures! Here's some of them...from my last days in Brockville. Because of exhaustion, I will let these images end this post:
 |
| my favorite photo from the whole time - that's NYS across the river |
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| another drop dead gorgeous Thousand Islands sunset |
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| same sunset...the colors are just astonishing to me |
Monday, April 1, 2013
Nostalgia, Memory, Small Towns & Snow (or: Blame Canada part 2)
So, it's been a while since I wrote anything here. Why? Well, in part because I've been trying to wrap my mind around Brockville, which is a small town-city both so similar in ways to places I grew up in New England and experienced in England (old school) that it feels familiar and yet being in Canada is wildly different. I am aware now that this is the longest time (a month) I have spent in a town this size since I was a child. As readers of this blog will no doubt have surmised my childhood was not very fun so the memory resonances are not the greatest. Among many issues I had as a child, one was continually being the "new kid" at various schools in small to medium sized towns where there were very codified sets of dress, behavior, expressions, etc. that I would of course not know and/or to which I could/would not conform because of either (a) not knowing said codes and/or (b) having parents or caretakers of some nature that were not of this place so having no access to required clothing, attitudes, accent, etc…
If the above paragraph does not make it clear why I live in NYC, nothing will. In a place like NYC, (and in my experience so far on earth, only in NYC), can I be who I am without any editing necessary and be accepted as such because really, who cares? The place is huge. There's room for whoever you want to be. I realize more and more that in many ways it's a city of misfits. There are exceptions of course including those I refer to as fair weather New Yorkers who are there to succeed in something and having succeeded or not at a set task leave for the suburbs or elsewhere as soon as possible. There are people born there who wish they hadn't been and would leave if they could. Then there are the rest of us, those drawn to this city because it's big enough, beautiful enough and multi-faceted enough to contain the restless misfit soul.
So what has this month been like? Well, I've finished a draft of a stage text, sent out applications for jobs and funding, publications, etc., sent off final paperwork for divorce in UK (with minimal fuss, though with annoying delays due to international nature of things and whatnot…but that's basically done, and now it's a waiting game) and the rest of the time is spent time with John, my beloved Canadian, when he has time between work and dealing with some complex matters that are best not written about here.
I've also been taking lots of photos and video….The St. Lawrence River, which I can see from where we are staying, is gorgeous. The sunsets while cold as shit have been beautiful. John, who is an excellent photographer, has been patiently showing me how all the bells and whistles work on my digital camera. As anyone who has ever tried to teach me anything can tell you: this can be trying. He assures me I am not as grouchy as I know I am…bless him. But slowly, slowly I'm learning. Also collecting video paintings for: what? I think probably the stage text recently completed as draft…but maybe something else…I'm still in divining rod living mode…feeling out next steps one at a time…
The nostalgia element of things here has to do with the weird echo of childhood, but also listening to music with John, which at times (when listening to e.g., Genesis, Talking Heads, etc.) brings us both back to our teens and 20s and this odd way in which we can envision having met one another back then (there having been at least two times in our younger lives wherein we were tantalizingly close - but not quite intersecting) so there is this odd parallel world in our not-memory (yet this not-memory has an inexplicable resonance) in which we met then and have been together since that time. It's really hard to describe this, but it's quite precise and strong. Of course in reality we could have driven each other nuts if we had met earlier and the people we are now we are because of past experiences, so it's a weird thing to contemplate, but somehow impossible not to have some weird nostalgia for a past we did not live…
Meanwhile, in real life, we have been together for four months and this month has given us time to get to know each other a lot better in real time and space, which has been invaluable and kind of amazingly great. There have been bumps and learning curves but we have dealt with each of these events with grace and without causing each other any undue anxiety. We seem to be able to focus on whatever the presenting issue is and move on. I've never found it so easy to communicate with a partner like ever. It's a revelation and a truly positive one. This is why I secretly (not so secretly) believe if we had met earlier in our lives we would have fallen in love and still be in love. There is a very deep sympatico that is so effortless that I have a feeling it would have been there from the beginning no matter when that beginning may have been…but that kind of thinking is clearly impossible to 'prove' and of course presents the even more problematic issue of non-acceptance of my actual past as it was lived…so the only truly affirmative way of looking at this is to say: yes to the whole thing...
So in lieu of continuing to whitter on in such bizarre hypotheticals, I will leave you with some photos of my time here. Where, for the record, it's still Really Cold…But at times also astonishingly beautiful… All of these photos are taken during various sunsets, which bring to mind Artaud's observation that "the setting sun is beautiful because of everything we lose by it."
If the above paragraph does not make it clear why I live in NYC, nothing will. In a place like NYC, (and in my experience so far on earth, only in NYC), can I be who I am without any editing necessary and be accepted as such because really, who cares? The place is huge. There's room for whoever you want to be. I realize more and more that in many ways it's a city of misfits. There are exceptions of course including those I refer to as fair weather New Yorkers who are there to succeed in something and having succeeded or not at a set task leave for the suburbs or elsewhere as soon as possible. There are people born there who wish they hadn't been and would leave if they could. Then there are the rest of us, those drawn to this city because it's big enough, beautiful enough and multi-faceted enough to contain the restless misfit soul.
So what has this month been like? Well, I've finished a draft of a stage text, sent out applications for jobs and funding, publications, etc., sent off final paperwork for divorce in UK (with minimal fuss, though with annoying delays due to international nature of things and whatnot…but that's basically done, and now it's a waiting game) and the rest of the time is spent time with John, my beloved Canadian, when he has time between work and dealing with some complex matters that are best not written about here.
I've also been taking lots of photos and video….The St. Lawrence River, which I can see from where we are staying, is gorgeous. The sunsets while cold as shit have been beautiful. John, who is an excellent photographer, has been patiently showing me how all the bells and whistles work on my digital camera. As anyone who has ever tried to teach me anything can tell you: this can be trying. He assures me I am not as grouchy as I know I am…bless him. But slowly, slowly I'm learning. Also collecting video paintings for: what? I think probably the stage text recently completed as draft…but maybe something else…I'm still in divining rod living mode…feeling out next steps one at a time…
The nostalgia element of things here has to do with the weird echo of childhood, but also listening to music with John, which at times (when listening to e.g., Genesis, Talking Heads, etc.) brings us both back to our teens and 20s and this odd way in which we can envision having met one another back then (there having been at least two times in our younger lives wherein we were tantalizingly close - but not quite intersecting) so there is this odd parallel world in our not-memory (yet this not-memory has an inexplicable resonance) in which we met then and have been together since that time. It's really hard to describe this, but it's quite precise and strong. Of course in reality we could have driven each other nuts if we had met earlier and the people we are now we are because of past experiences, so it's a weird thing to contemplate, but somehow impossible not to have some weird nostalgia for a past we did not live…
Meanwhile, in real life, we have been together for four months and this month has given us time to get to know each other a lot better in real time and space, which has been invaluable and kind of amazingly great. There have been bumps and learning curves but we have dealt with each of these events with grace and without causing each other any undue anxiety. We seem to be able to focus on whatever the presenting issue is and move on. I've never found it so easy to communicate with a partner like ever. It's a revelation and a truly positive one. This is why I secretly (not so secretly) believe if we had met earlier in our lives we would have fallen in love and still be in love. There is a very deep sympatico that is so effortless that I have a feeling it would have been there from the beginning no matter when that beginning may have been…but that kind of thinking is clearly impossible to 'prove' and of course presents the even more problematic issue of non-acceptance of my actual past as it was lived…so the only truly affirmative way of looking at this is to say: yes to the whole thing...
So in lieu of continuing to whitter on in such bizarre hypotheticals, I will leave you with some photos of my time here. Where, for the record, it's still Really Cold…But at times also astonishingly beautiful… All of these photos are taken during various sunsets, which bring to mind Artaud's observation that "the setting sun is beautiful because of everything we lose by it."
 |
| St. Lawrence Park |
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| reflection in river of sky and trees from Block House Island |
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| sunset reflections from Block House Island |
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| seagulls of Block House Island with Canadian Air Force plane |
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