Things are looking up.
Spring is springing. I continue to be amazed by all the blooming of flowers and buds. I have a lilac flower in a glass-as-vase, smelling up the hallway with that sweet lilac smell. Was walking with a new friend tonight when I came upon the lilac bush and he being taller than me, picked a flower for me, which was lovely. He's someone like me in weird marriage-limbo so we discussed this as I took him through the same walk another friend had shown me when I first moved up here. To the wetland area up through the woods and around to the Hudson - during twilight to sunset. I had figured out my fancy camera, which can take kick-ass photos in low light and am delighted by some of the shots. I have not yet installed the software on my computer to download the photos properly so will have to post them later - along with a bunch of other amazing shots I've been getting.
I can smell the lilac from here now - the advantage of a small studio. It reminds me, too, that right now in London the lilac tree I planted in the backyard that used to be B's and mine should be blooming. I planted it as a memorial to whomever could have been if I had not had the miscarriage five years ago on this coming Sunday. I love lilacs. They are my favorite flower. In Maine, they bloomed in June, which was my birthday month. I think usually they bloom in NYC around May, but this year has been so warm, so we have them now at the same time as the canary yellow forsythia, which I remember mostly from Waterford, Connecticut - growing at the gravel driveway that led to the back of the house in which we rented the upstairs apartment from Mrs. Beckwith who lived downstairs, next to the young couple who used to fight and have loud make-up sex below our kitchen. My mother told me once - in another one of her excellent moments of mothers (and I mean that not sarcastically at all by the way): that (referring to the sounds below) is a bad relationship. You don't ever want to be in one of those. Amen, tell it sister. She was right.
I have managed to get into some sub-optimal relationships, but have never had to go to that extreme, though I have a lot of sympathy for those who do. Because, imagine if you will, the shame attached to it and who the fuck wants to admit to that shit? I wouldn't. I couldn't even admit I was being emotionally abused, never mind if there had been physical abuse, too. On the other hand, the lack of physical abuse was the excuse I used to stay in that particular relationship, as in: "on the positive side, there's no physical abuse." Trust me, if that's the best thing you can say about a relationship, it's not a good thing.
However, it's easy to know this intellectually, as I did even then, but not be able to act on it, such is the nature of emotional loyalty to really old and bad ingrained ideas....
So, how do I segue from that into my theater workshop on Saturday that went really well? Ok, here's the attempt:
Speaking of emotional loyalty to really old and ingrained bad ideas: the workshop works first with clichés as a way to penetrate into the reality grid we live in at any given moment. And I'll be damned if it didn't work again...levels of address, cutting them up...bringing in gestures, doing the same. I've taught versions of this same workshop to numerous groups of people and every time I'm re-amazed: it works, it works! It still works!
This group was special, too - people from many different backgrounds and ages, some in theater, some in social work, some doing conflict resolution work...some teachers, some professional actors...a fantastic combination of talents, opinions, points of view and amazing dedication to the task at hand.
There were 14 participants in all, which considering it was Easter and Passover weekend struck us as quite extraordinary. The comments and engagement was phenomenal, and as usual, I had some inspiring conversations and made a few connections with people that may lead to some very interesting possibilities.
I am thinking of continuing in this vein - teaching workshops at Brecht Forum and other places independently, as everyone involved gets so much out of it and I find out so much new stuff about the work. I will be working up a proposal to teach an experimental play/performance writing class, because I want to move this 4 dimensional performance energy into working with writers as well.
But I am also hoping to extend these workshops finally, past the beginning stage to something where people can take the ball and run with it a little further. If you are interested in checking out the one-day workshop, we'll have another one on May 12 (see sidebar for details). We will probably also have another workshop in June to do more advanced work for anyone who knows the basics, so that'll be a start. I've done that before with 4-5 day versions of the workshop in university contexts, but want to see if I can bring that outside to a place like Brecht Forum, so can work with a more diverse group who can then bring this stuff into their professional practice as artists, teachers and/or political organizers...
Speaking of which, just saw an amazing documentary on PBS tonight called 'To Be Heard' following the lives of three students in a high-school Power Writing class that takes place on the campus of Bronx Community College. From the beginning of the documentary to the end, starting with a glimpse at the buildings where I teach and the students, I started crying - in recognition and in joy at what the teachers were doing with the students and their voices, which were so crystal clear. If you can see this documentary, do. It's extraordinary, not for the faint of heart, not in any way sugar-coated happy-clappy but real as dirt. You will then see the faces of the students I see about a year before I see them. Though some of these students go on to places like Sarah Lawrence College, which is great, too. It really made me wish I was teaching writing, too...but also gave me some ideas for the class I am teaching.
I realized, too, the importance of where I am teaching and the politics of teaching these young people language, writing and communication skills. The whole documentary vindicated my insistence on writing in my class. The lecture one teacher gave about the importance of understanding vocabulary words, because if you don't know the language "you will be screwed" sent me into another fit of crying for joy. He went on to say things like "If you can't control language, you will be fucked by it and adding another bar to the prison cell - not necessarily an actual prison, but the one in your head." A man after my own heart. The motto of their writing class is "If you don't write your own life story, someone else will do it for you." So great. I will try soon to find these people and see if I can help out. Obviously. I am also going to apply for a full-time position at BCC. I'm just a teaching application machine...one application at a time. Need to go and work on one now. It's late but it's due tomorrow. Oy. Wish me luck...will be interesting to see where which chips land. No clue right now.
Showing posts with label Brecht Forum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brecht Forum. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Finally some good news!
It's been a week since I last wrote, probably the longest break I've taken from this blog. I needed it. Had to apply to a bunch of places for teaching work - which seemingly endless task will continue this week. I had a realization: I need a job, as in a full-time job, as in not adjuncting, not just freelancing - a real job, teaching preferably so the PhD doesn't have to seem entirely meaningless, on which status it now flutters. I also would like to not be continually plagued with money anxiety. I feel a bit like I'm giving in to something, put perhaps at 48, it's just adulthood. I've given permanent adolescence a long run. Wouldn't trade it. But right now, would like a break in the action so I can catch my breath, have some health insurance and maybe afford a decent apartment. Crazy talk, I know.
So, what's the good news? I'm teaching my Cutting It Up workshop on Saturday at The Brecht Forum and so far a good sized group has signed up for it, including folks coming in from Washington D.C., Boston and Philadelphia. This kind of blows my mind. People are making a trip into NYC to take my workshop. Perhaps it's because it coincides with Easter, Passover and Spring break, but for whatever reason, I'm delighted...especially since we thought the group would be really small because Passover and Easter coincide this year. Oddly enough the first day of Passover is on Good Friday, which just seems like some sort of existential joke between the Old and New Testament God/s or something...Kierkegaard would get a laugh out of it anyway. Can't speak for the Jewish scholars simply because it's not my patch. Anyone want to comment on that, please feel free.
Was asked by the extraordinarily supportive Martin Denton to do a guest blog post on Indie Theater . This is about the workshop and how this work relates to my writing. If you're interested, you can link to it here. That probably helped bump up the numbers for the workshop. Speaking of which, if you're interested in the workshop itself, come on by on Saturday or if you can't make it April 7, come on by May 12. Would be lovely to meet you!
It is now also - praise Jesus Allah Buddha Mohammed Vishnu Kali and Whomever Else Desires Praise - spring break this week. I am beyond exhausted, so am grateful for this.
However, I have enjoyed teaching this week. My acting class, as always is a joy, but a surprise was my interpersonal communications class - when two different students today handing in their research papers said - and I quote - "Thanks for this assignment, I really enjoyed doing this work." Please re-read that. Please understand where I teach and feel the miracle. I almost cried.
After months of grading short essays, driving the students insane by requiring writing (not to mention driving myself insane by needing to mark all these essays - in homework, on tests, etc.), there was this unsolicited response. I was floored, in a good way. Just when you start thinking: what's the point? Why do I do this much work? No one cares. No one even seems to be listening in class. I wonder if perhaps I may be the most boring teacher on earth, etc., this happens and it seems, at least for one afternoon, all worthwhile.
Beyond that, I feel I am beginning to find my footing in these unfamiliar classes, beginning to allow whatever passes for the 'real me' into the classroom. Last autumn I was so scared that while I was present, I felt like a cardboard cut out of a teacher - someone following rules others had laid down and hoping no one would find out that I was only 2 pages ahead (which last autumn I was - not that I lied to anyone who hired me - they knew that - so at least I didn't have to worry about the administration - I just felt for the students).
I love teaching my own work so much, however, that this Saturday just seems like a 6 hour play date to me, not like work at all. That is an amazing feeling.
But I also feel that this dragging students along into maybe actually, for a moment, enjoying writing has value, too, even if that work is much more taxing and definitely feels Like Work.
The other good news if you want to call it that is that I really Felt this past week that the grieving, sitting through all the emotions surrounding, the separating from B and our impending divorce is like detoxing from alcohol and drugs. In other words, the marriage was a state of being, one that was clearly getting increasingly toxic and so to move away from it is going to feel as disorienting as getting sober. That process can take years and I believe this process will also take years. I don't know when I will be ready to get involved with another person, because I really, really, really need to find a way to believe in myself as OK - by myself. I don't mean by that that I don't want to be with someone else again, because that's not true. I simply mean that I want to go into any new relationship as a whole person.
I am a whole person, that's not the problem - it's my perception of myself as Not a whole person that is the problem. The part of myself that feels I need to Perform in all ways to deserve to draw breath on this planet and certainly in order to be with another person. This is gut wrenching work and means going through what I am increasingly seeing as emotional DTs - wherein strange hallucinations appear and there be dragons. Of course there not be dragons. The dragons are dream figures. I know that once I can see them that way, but in moments they seem quite distressingly real.
A few days ago I called and regaled my mother for about an hour with said dragons, which she did a brilliant job of helping me see as shadows - not by haranguing me or saying "hey, those are dragons, you fool!" but by listening and helping me see this myself. I have good friends who help me this way, too, and for whom I do the same. Without these friends and family, I know this journey would be impossible.
These people who love me, one of whom also includes my cousin Darcy who I finally got to speak with last week, keep me sane and let me know there is love and allow me, in moments, to feel loveable, when I'm about to throw in the towel on myself. I don't mean by that I am suicidal by the way, because I'm not. It just means a kind of giving up that would mean not physical death but living life in a husk-like way, skating on a surface of wafer-thin ice...therefore always afraid of really skating, hovering at the edge of the pond, clinging to branches of trees, hoping not to fall into the ice-cold water...mixing metaphors and never really resolving them kind of like this sentence...OK, forgive me. You get the idea. I'm too tired to mop that one up.
In fact, I'm too tired to keep writing. But did want to post something. I will eventually post some lovely spring photos from Central Park but too tired to upload those right now, too...
Oh speaking of which, my sublet is coming to an end on June 1, so I'm looking for a place to live - in case any of you out there are in NYC and know me - just a heads up on that. Was hoping to stay here this summer and not have to move again but them's the breaks with subletting.
Have cat, will travel...somewhere within NYC...that is affordable. Wish me luck.
I close out this post listening to a chance-operations version of Handel by Gavin Breyers (sp?) thanks to Jonathan Schaffer's 'New Sounds' on WNYC, which was preceded by a piece by Alvin Lucier that used dolphin sonar locators. Sometimes life is just so good.
So, what's the good news? I'm teaching my Cutting It Up workshop on Saturday at The Brecht Forum and so far a good sized group has signed up for it, including folks coming in from Washington D.C., Boston and Philadelphia. This kind of blows my mind. People are making a trip into NYC to take my workshop. Perhaps it's because it coincides with Easter, Passover and Spring break, but for whatever reason, I'm delighted...especially since we thought the group would be really small because Passover and Easter coincide this year. Oddly enough the first day of Passover is on Good Friday, which just seems like some sort of existential joke between the Old and New Testament God/s or something...Kierkegaard would get a laugh out of it anyway. Can't speak for the Jewish scholars simply because it's not my patch. Anyone want to comment on that, please feel free.
Was asked by the extraordinarily supportive Martin Denton to do a guest blog post on Indie Theater . This is about the workshop and how this work relates to my writing. If you're interested, you can link to it here. That probably helped bump up the numbers for the workshop. Speaking of which, if you're interested in the workshop itself, come on by on Saturday or if you can't make it April 7, come on by May 12. Would be lovely to meet you!
It is now also - praise Jesus Allah Buddha Mohammed Vishnu Kali and Whomever Else Desires Praise - spring break this week. I am beyond exhausted, so am grateful for this.
However, I have enjoyed teaching this week. My acting class, as always is a joy, but a surprise was my interpersonal communications class - when two different students today handing in their research papers said - and I quote - "Thanks for this assignment, I really enjoyed doing this work." Please re-read that. Please understand where I teach and feel the miracle. I almost cried.
After months of grading short essays, driving the students insane by requiring writing (not to mention driving myself insane by needing to mark all these essays - in homework, on tests, etc.), there was this unsolicited response. I was floored, in a good way. Just when you start thinking: what's the point? Why do I do this much work? No one cares. No one even seems to be listening in class. I wonder if perhaps I may be the most boring teacher on earth, etc., this happens and it seems, at least for one afternoon, all worthwhile.
Beyond that, I feel I am beginning to find my footing in these unfamiliar classes, beginning to allow whatever passes for the 'real me' into the classroom. Last autumn I was so scared that while I was present, I felt like a cardboard cut out of a teacher - someone following rules others had laid down and hoping no one would find out that I was only 2 pages ahead (which last autumn I was - not that I lied to anyone who hired me - they knew that - so at least I didn't have to worry about the administration - I just felt for the students).
I love teaching my own work so much, however, that this Saturday just seems like a 6 hour play date to me, not like work at all. That is an amazing feeling.
But I also feel that this dragging students along into maybe actually, for a moment, enjoying writing has value, too, even if that work is much more taxing and definitely feels Like Work.
The other good news if you want to call it that is that I really Felt this past week that the grieving, sitting through all the emotions surrounding, the separating from B and our impending divorce is like detoxing from alcohol and drugs. In other words, the marriage was a state of being, one that was clearly getting increasingly toxic and so to move away from it is going to feel as disorienting as getting sober. That process can take years and I believe this process will also take years. I don't know when I will be ready to get involved with another person, because I really, really, really need to find a way to believe in myself as OK - by myself. I don't mean by that that I don't want to be with someone else again, because that's not true. I simply mean that I want to go into any new relationship as a whole person.
I am a whole person, that's not the problem - it's my perception of myself as Not a whole person that is the problem. The part of myself that feels I need to Perform in all ways to deserve to draw breath on this planet and certainly in order to be with another person. This is gut wrenching work and means going through what I am increasingly seeing as emotional DTs - wherein strange hallucinations appear and there be dragons. Of course there not be dragons. The dragons are dream figures. I know that once I can see them that way, but in moments they seem quite distressingly real.
A few days ago I called and regaled my mother for about an hour with said dragons, which she did a brilliant job of helping me see as shadows - not by haranguing me or saying "hey, those are dragons, you fool!" but by listening and helping me see this myself. I have good friends who help me this way, too, and for whom I do the same. Without these friends and family, I know this journey would be impossible.
These people who love me, one of whom also includes my cousin Darcy who I finally got to speak with last week, keep me sane and let me know there is love and allow me, in moments, to feel loveable, when I'm about to throw in the towel on myself. I don't mean by that I am suicidal by the way, because I'm not. It just means a kind of giving up that would mean not physical death but living life in a husk-like way, skating on a surface of wafer-thin ice...therefore always afraid of really skating, hovering at the edge of the pond, clinging to branches of trees, hoping not to fall into the ice-cold water...mixing metaphors and never really resolving them kind of like this sentence...OK, forgive me. You get the idea. I'm too tired to mop that one up.
In fact, I'm too tired to keep writing. But did want to post something. I will eventually post some lovely spring photos from Central Park but too tired to upload those right now, too...
Oh speaking of which, my sublet is coming to an end on June 1, so I'm looking for a place to live - in case any of you out there are in NYC and know me - just a heads up on that. Was hoping to stay here this summer and not have to move again but them's the breaks with subletting.
Have cat, will travel...somewhere within NYC...that is affordable. Wish me luck.
I close out this post listening to a chance-operations version of Handel by Gavin Breyers (sp?) thanks to Jonathan Schaffer's 'New Sounds' on WNYC, which was preceded by a piece by Alvin Lucier that used dolphin sonar locators. Sometimes life is just so good.
Monday, January 23, 2012
"Imagination is more important than knowledge"
After a few days wherein I was preparing for and then watching my play get read at Brecht Forum, I had a lovely day off today, in which I did very little, except talk to some friends on the phone, then go to a meeting nearby then come back home and watch a little football, then Downton Abbey (which the New Yorker reviewer also accused of being nostalgic about old class divides but admitted was also riveting - both true - I think she basically concluded it was a guilty pleasure that's wrapped up to look like something good for you - kind of like candy that looks like seaweed wrapped around sushi, but is in fact chocolate mouse coated with sugar. I would agree)...
What followed however was as wonderful as it was unexpected. A show on NPR called "On Being" about Detroit's unlikely renaissance (which is not economically driven but instead human-driven - e.g., older African American women who emigrated from the South who call themselves the Gardening Angels urban gardening on abandoned lots, other folks rebuilding with the help of wounded vets and all manner of self-sustaining urban-green-organic type stuff...the focus of the show was a woman named Grace Lee Boggs, a 96 year old Chinese-American philosopher, daughter of immigrants, born in Providence, RI (where I was born, I'm proud to say!), who got her PhD in 1940 and went on to become a radical political figure along with her husband in Detroit. She became a big part of the African American struggle, which dovetailed into both feminism and socialism.
She spoke about Hegel and about negativity being the prerequisite for the positive, and how people have been finding ways to live in Detroit ever since the rebellion (her term) in the 1960s wherein many buildings were burnt down and led to white flight from the city. The report, Krista Tippett, said she was "surrounded by radiant people" who see her as an elder. Boggs was born in 1915, a year before both my grandmothers, one of whom was an activist feminist, so I pricked up my ears to listen closely to her.
After this radio show, I was inspired to go back to the Dick & Jani project, which may become a stage text...still not sure on that...and decided to write in a plausible but fictional account of Jani meeting this amazing Grace Lee Boggs. After having fun with that, I then went back to Dick (aka Betty) at the same time (1976) commenting on the Carol Burnett show and her ceaseless criticizing or complaining about all things great and small. This was deeply painful to write, as I lived with her for 2 years of this in the 1970s and was the focus of a lot of her deep frustration. However, I forced myself to continue writing through this pain, because this is what I hear everyone who writes memoirs or stuff about their family in semi-fictional contexts say: it's fucking painful. I don't know why/how/if I thought I got to jump over that bit, but I know from listening to Karr & Carr that that is impossible. I set myself a time to stop though, because I knew if I kept going, it would be just too much and I wouldn't get back to it. I also had to write through the ceaseless voice in my head saying "Who cares? Who the fuck cares? No one will want to read this! It's just depressing..." etc. Which when you think about the subject stands to reason, don't it?
The moral of the story is this: if I rest and do what I need to do for myself, I suddenly find myself with time and energy to burn, which translates into writing. Good to know.
The last few days, which included the two readings, also included some emotional upheavals, most of which were not directly related to the play - except inasmuch as the night after the first reading I was overcome by how lonely I felt, as I didn't have anyone to share the experience with when I got home. The first reading night was scary because, as per usual, we didn't have enough time, and I had also handed it over to a director and so had no control over what happened, like at all. Also, there was someone there from a pretty big deal theater, which added to the Fear. It went pretty well considering, but the Important Theater Person left before I could speak with her and I don't know what she thought...
We got some really good feedback that night (both positive and critical - but in a constructive way), and I was happy about all that, but was having my usual delayed-fear response on the way back home - like one of those cartoon/comedy routines where someone does something 'brave' and then is shaking after the confrontation is over...again, none of this is outside of my experience as a writer and/or director in the theater, but coming home alone, knowing the next day was B's birthday and I wouldn't be calling him because we're separated now, especially we had had shared our work with each other for 10 years, so the one person I would be talking to - either in person or on skype or whatever was not there, was quite hard. So, I watched dumb movies that made me cry...
The next day I went to a meeting and found myself crying for a long time on a friend's shoulder. She also came to the reading the second night, so I dubbed her my guardian angel for the day. It felt good to finally cry with someone after all my solo crying jags - to finally have my pain witnessed here in NYC. It was witnessed in London, but here it hasn't been as acute and I haven't known where to allow it out that felt safe. It's good to know that is gradually changing.
At that meeting someone said something very important, too, which is quite profound even though simple. She said "I discovered that it's important when you say no, to know what you're saying yes to" - in other words, when you say no, you open up a space where something else can live - whether it's time, energy, money, creativity, whatever. A no is not just a negative, it leads to a positive.
The Saturday reading, even though some audience was deterred by (gorgeous) snowstorm, was full of lovely folks, including, much to my surprise iconic 60s-activist writer Barbara Garson (most well-known play: MacBird!), who was generous in her response. I look forward to meeting with her soon as I am sure I have much to learn from her.
We had a very interesting after-show discussion on Saturday including a fellow from Occupy Wall Street's banking committee, who had worked on Wall Street. (Apparently in a few weeks they will be publishing a concept for a different kind of bank that "benefits the 99% rather than the 1%). He spoke quite eloquently of attempting to get out of the winner-loser dialectic and how to work with a more cooperative model. This shed some very interesting light on the play and the discussion.
The actors did an incredible job with only a few hours of rehearsal - making a staged reading seem like a very alive piece of theater. The actors were Marietta Hedges, Matt Higgins, Terry Runnell, Kevin Scott and Alyssa Simon. Kevin and Rik Walter (director) also managed to pull off a lot of technical stuff, which was way above and beyond the call of staged-reading duty.
As a writer, there is very little more moving than watching people work with passion and precision on words you have written. By the end of Saturday, when Matt (who was playing the role of "James" - the one who does not want to go "off script"), allowed for the full scale meltdown that is implied by the text, it was extraordinary. It made me want to cry, and I wrote the damn thing. In these moments, I know why I work in theater, because there is nothing like it. There is no moment watching a movie or reading or seeing a painting or even hearing/watching music when you can watch a human being connect with something in himself that connects with everyone in the room in a way that is that palpable and transformative. Those moments shift the air, allow spaces for some kind of rearrangement of molecules...and well a connection...There is an Allen Ginsberg quote I read on (of all things) Twitter the other day and retweeted (the 21st century version of praise) that somehow touches this - though he's talking about his desire in his writing: 'to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame'
something like that - except it's not prose but instead the soul of the person him or herself...
When I came back last night, therefore, I did not feel alone. Because there was that deeper connection - in the theater, in the meeting, at the diner afterwards with Marietta who made this all happen...
Can these moments change the world? Can anything? I don't know. I do love the sense of possibility though. Grace Lee Boggs raised the twin issues of necessity and possibility, saying that in the past political activists were only concerned with necessity, but now the idea of possibility is more important. She was saying "this is more subtle, more interesting...and allows for more imagination." She mentioned that Einstein felt that imagination was more important than knowledge.
So: let us get drunk on water (as Deleuze and Guattari suggest quoting Henry Miller) by beginning with a toast to possibility and imagination.
What followed however was as wonderful as it was unexpected. A show on NPR called "On Being" about Detroit's unlikely renaissance (which is not economically driven but instead human-driven - e.g., older African American women who emigrated from the South who call themselves the Gardening Angels urban gardening on abandoned lots, other folks rebuilding with the help of wounded vets and all manner of self-sustaining urban-green-organic type stuff...the focus of the show was a woman named Grace Lee Boggs, a 96 year old Chinese-American philosopher, daughter of immigrants, born in Providence, RI (where I was born, I'm proud to say!), who got her PhD in 1940 and went on to become a radical political figure along with her husband in Detroit. She became a big part of the African American struggle, which dovetailed into both feminism and socialism.
She spoke about Hegel and about negativity being the prerequisite for the positive, and how people have been finding ways to live in Detroit ever since the rebellion (her term) in the 1960s wherein many buildings were burnt down and led to white flight from the city. The report, Krista Tippett, said she was "surrounded by radiant people" who see her as an elder. Boggs was born in 1915, a year before both my grandmothers, one of whom was an activist feminist, so I pricked up my ears to listen closely to her.
After this radio show, I was inspired to go back to the Dick & Jani project, which may become a stage text...still not sure on that...and decided to write in a plausible but fictional account of Jani meeting this amazing Grace Lee Boggs. After having fun with that, I then went back to Dick (aka Betty) at the same time (1976) commenting on the Carol Burnett show and her ceaseless criticizing or complaining about all things great and small. This was deeply painful to write, as I lived with her for 2 years of this in the 1970s and was the focus of a lot of her deep frustration. However, I forced myself to continue writing through this pain, because this is what I hear everyone who writes memoirs or stuff about their family in semi-fictional contexts say: it's fucking painful. I don't know why/how/if I thought I got to jump over that bit, but I know from listening to Karr & Carr that that is impossible. I set myself a time to stop though, because I knew if I kept going, it would be just too much and I wouldn't get back to it. I also had to write through the ceaseless voice in my head saying "Who cares? Who the fuck cares? No one will want to read this! It's just depressing..." etc. Which when you think about the subject stands to reason, don't it?
The moral of the story is this: if I rest and do what I need to do for myself, I suddenly find myself with time and energy to burn, which translates into writing. Good to know.
The last few days, which included the two readings, also included some emotional upheavals, most of which were not directly related to the play - except inasmuch as the night after the first reading I was overcome by how lonely I felt, as I didn't have anyone to share the experience with when I got home. The first reading night was scary because, as per usual, we didn't have enough time, and I had also handed it over to a director and so had no control over what happened, like at all. Also, there was someone there from a pretty big deal theater, which added to the Fear. It went pretty well considering, but the Important Theater Person left before I could speak with her and I don't know what she thought...
We got some really good feedback that night (both positive and critical - but in a constructive way), and I was happy about all that, but was having my usual delayed-fear response on the way back home - like one of those cartoon/comedy routines where someone does something 'brave' and then is shaking after the confrontation is over...again, none of this is outside of my experience as a writer and/or director in the theater, but coming home alone, knowing the next day was B's birthday and I wouldn't be calling him because we're separated now, especially we had had shared our work with each other for 10 years, so the one person I would be talking to - either in person or on skype or whatever was not there, was quite hard. So, I watched dumb movies that made me cry...
The next day I went to a meeting and found myself crying for a long time on a friend's shoulder. She also came to the reading the second night, so I dubbed her my guardian angel for the day. It felt good to finally cry with someone after all my solo crying jags - to finally have my pain witnessed here in NYC. It was witnessed in London, but here it hasn't been as acute and I haven't known where to allow it out that felt safe. It's good to know that is gradually changing.
At that meeting someone said something very important, too, which is quite profound even though simple. She said "I discovered that it's important when you say no, to know what you're saying yes to" - in other words, when you say no, you open up a space where something else can live - whether it's time, energy, money, creativity, whatever. A no is not just a negative, it leads to a positive.
The Saturday reading, even though some audience was deterred by (gorgeous) snowstorm, was full of lovely folks, including, much to my surprise iconic 60s-activist writer Barbara Garson (most well-known play: MacBird!), who was generous in her response. I look forward to meeting with her soon as I am sure I have much to learn from her.
We had a very interesting after-show discussion on Saturday including a fellow from Occupy Wall Street's banking committee, who had worked on Wall Street. (Apparently in a few weeks they will be publishing a concept for a different kind of bank that "benefits the 99% rather than the 1%). He spoke quite eloquently of attempting to get out of the winner-loser dialectic and how to work with a more cooperative model. This shed some very interesting light on the play and the discussion.
The actors did an incredible job with only a few hours of rehearsal - making a staged reading seem like a very alive piece of theater. The actors were Marietta Hedges, Matt Higgins, Terry Runnell, Kevin Scott and Alyssa Simon. Kevin and Rik Walter (director) also managed to pull off a lot of technical stuff, which was way above and beyond the call of staged-reading duty.
As a writer, there is very little more moving than watching people work with passion and precision on words you have written. By the end of Saturday, when Matt (who was playing the role of "James" - the one who does not want to go "off script"), allowed for the full scale meltdown that is implied by the text, it was extraordinary. It made me want to cry, and I wrote the damn thing. In these moments, I know why I work in theater, because there is nothing like it. There is no moment watching a movie or reading or seeing a painting or even hearing/watching music when you can watch a human being connect with something in himself that connects with everyone in the room in a way that is that palpable and transformative. Those moments shift the air, allow spaces for some kind of rearrangement of molecules...and well a connection...There is an Allen Ginsberg quote I read on (of all things) Twitter the other day and retweeted (the 21st century version of praise) that somehow touches this - though he's talking about his desire in his writing: 'to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame'
something like that - except it's not prose but instead the soul of the person him or herself...
When I came back last night, therefore, I did not feel alone. Because there was that deeper connection - in the theater, in the meeting, at the diner afterwards with Marietta who made this all happen...
Can these moments change the world? Can anything? I don't know. I do love the sense of possibility though. Grace Lee Boggs raised the twin issues of necessity and possibility, saying that in the past political activists were only concerned with necessity, but now the idea of possibility is more important. She was saying "this is more subtle, more interesting...and allows for more imagination." She mentioned that Einstein felt that imagination was more important than knowledge.
So: let us get drunk on water (as Deleuze and Guattari suggest quoting Henry Miller) by beginning with a toast to possibility and imagination.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
What a great day at Housing Works Bookstore & Brecht Forum
This evening I had the deep privilege of sitting in front of one of my literary heros, Mary Karr (apologies to you who have been reading this blog and having to hear me babble on and on about her over and over again, but I've read all 3 of her books in about a month, so I can't help it), and hearing her and some other folks, including a Twitter hero (is that possible, I guess so) David Carr (@carr2n) talk about their experiences with addiction, recovery and writing.
One of the authors on the panel drove me almost to distraction. I will leave out her name, but her one comment that almost drew some fire from fellow panelists, but didn't because they all have way too much time in recovery. I watched them as a group inhale, breathe out and decide not to say anything - kind of a collective response. If you've spent times in rooms where this is necessary due to the structure that allows people to speak without interruption, you will understand what I mean. She said, basically, that the last 200+ inventions of any use in recent history were "all made by us" (that would be Americans) and that "capitalism and art are a great combination!" (exclamation point hers) At moments like that, I think: (a) you need to get out more - like out of This Country and (b) no wonder everyone else hates us (Americans)! Oh and just for the final idiocy, we were there in Housing Works Cafe, which is there to help people with HIV/AIDS who are/were homeless. She also said - and this didn't surprise me one bit - that "I don't go to meetings anymore" in a tone which implied she didn't need them - hmmm), But OK, she - happily - was the aberration.
Everyone else was great.
I already expected Mary Karr to be great, and happily she did not disappoint. She is as beautiful, funny and direct as her writing would lead you to expect. She is engaged to be married at age 57 (big shiny diamond - I'm not making this up), which means at 48 I'm not dead yet - always good to know. When I handed her the printed out version of an email I had sent her, she was entirely gracious and lovely about it.
More importantly, ehat I learned from her in the panel discussion is yes it's possible to talk about all this stuff honestly without breaking principles of anonymity, yes it's safer to be out there in the world with your story told than keeping secrets and yes (all agreed on this) it's not about 'self-expression' but about telling a story of transformation - not about how horrible someone else was or what happened but how the individual (memoirist or in a novel) overcomes something about her or himself. This is so basic, I don't think I ever considered it, which is embarrassing: the blindingly obvious being quite literally blinding So, I'm glad I could hear that.
Listening to David Carr (a reporter for the New York Times) talking about his memoir, I was astonished at what he went through to do it - asking everyone he knew to basically tell him all the asshole things he did when he was drinking and drugging - treating his own (self described as horrendous) behaviour like a news story and reporting it. The best (most incredible unreliable narrator) story was how he remembered a situation where he had somehow assaulted a friend of his - maybe by accident with a car, I can't remember that part (and I just heard this story an hour ago...so there you go...) and he went to his place and his friend asked him to leave, waving a gun, saying he was too scared of him now. The friend told Carr, yeah that all happened: except you had the gun. Carr was astonished, as he thought he hated guns. Then yet another friend confirmed that he had a Smith & Wesson in his house when he'd helped move him at one point and wondered about why he had a gun. Carr then wrote all this in his memoir entitled, for now obvious reasons The Night of the Gun. Talk about guts. Damn. And he struck me as the most singularly humble person I remember having ever encountered. I know that sounds extreme, but I've honestly never seen it - not in someone who is speaking in public and could be talking about how great it is he has been redeemed or whatever.
His humility made me fall back in love with Mary Karr when she said in response to Carr's off-hand remark that when Bill O'Reilly doesn't like what he says, he'll accuse him of being a crack addict, but that at least that's actually true....and anyway, that's the most interesting part of my life..."Oh bullshit David, that's the least interesting part of you." She meant this in a loving way, and it was gorgeous to see.
I didn't drool in front of anyone, and for that alone I am grateful. I felt I deserved my seat and that I could talk to these folks without fear, which is a new experience. I also rediscovered another obvious thing: I find it easier to talk with people who are clean and sober than drunk and stoned. Shock.
Before that Rik, the director of the reading of We live in financial times, and I had fun working out all the technical stuff for the staged reading this weekend at Brecht Forum. The Occupy Wall Street folks were having their general assembly in the space at 7pm, so we're obviously in the right place. If you haven't been to Brecht Forum, I do recommend checking it out. There seems to be all kinds of good stuff happening there, that is if you like your art and politics radical.
Having said that, let me assure you if you are coming to see the play, it is not agit prop didactic. I believe it's more complex than that - and with any luck will inspire a real conversation between bankers and OWS (who will be part of talk-back after the readings). That is probably wildly optimistic, but is my desire.
It's incredibly cold today, but that kind of makes me feel better - like I'm in the right season. I also love the coat I bought up in Maine, which is like wearing a big comforter (British: duvet). There's nothing quite as satisfying is feeling how cold it is, but being warm.
Yesterday spent the Whole Day aside from a small break for a meeting and about 15 minutes of yoga, sending invites out for the upcoming readings. So, like, if you're reading this and in NYC, please come along! It's gonna be interesting...
OK, now time for yoga and chilling out time...
One of the authors on the panel drove me almost to distraction. I will leave out her name, but her one comment that almost drew some fire from fellow panelists, but didn't because they all have way too much time in recovery. I watched them as a group inhale, breathe out and decide not to say anything - kind of a collective response. If you've spent times in rooms where this is necessary due to the structure that allows people to speak without interruption, you will understand what I mean. She said, basically, that the last 200+ inventions of any use in recent history were "all made by us" (that would be Americans) and that "capitalism and art are a great combination!" (exclamation point hers) At moments like that, I think: (a) you need to get out more - like out of This Country and (b) no wonder everyone else hates us (Americans)! Oh and just for the final idiocy, we were there in Housing Works Cafe, which is there to help people with HIV/AIDS who are/were homeless. She also said - and this didn't surprise me one bit - that "I don't go to meetings anymore" in a tone which implied she didn't need them - hmmm), But OK, she - happily - was the aberration.
Everyone else was great.
I already expected Mary Karr to be great, and happily she did not disappoint. She is as beautiful, funny and direct as her writing would lead you to expect. She is engaged to be married at age 57 (big shiny diamond - I'm not making this up), which means at 48 I'm not dead yet - always good to know. When I handed her the printed out version of an email I had sent her, she was entirely gracious and lovely about it.
More importantly, ehat I learned from her in the panel discussion is yes it's possible to talk about all this stuff honestly without breaking principles of anonymity, yes it's safer to be out there in the world with your story told than keeping secrets and yes (all agreed on this) it's not about 'self-expression' but about telling a story of transformation - not about how horrible someone else was or what happened but how the individual (memoirist or in a novel) overcomes something about her or himself. This is so basic, I don't think I ever considered it, which is embarrassing: the blindingly obvious being quite literally blinding So, I'm glad I could hear that.
Listening to David Carr (a reporter for the New York Times) talking about his memoir, I was astonished at what he went through to do it - asking everyone he knew to basically tell him all the asshole things he did when he was drinking and drugging - treating his own (self described as horrendous) behaviour like a news story and reporting it. The best (most incredible unreliable narrator) story was how he remembered a situation where he had somehow assaulted a friend of his - maybe by accident with a car, I can't remember that part (and I just heard this story an hour ago...so there you go...) and he went to his place and his friend asked him to leave, waving a gun, saying he was too scared of him now. The friend told Carr, yeah that all happened: except you had the gun. Carr was astonished, as he thought he hated guns. Then yet another friend confirmed that he had a Smith & Wesson in his house when he'd helped move him at one point and wondered about why he had a gun. Carr then wrote all this in his memoir entitled, for now obvious reasons The Night of the Gun. Talk about guts. Damn. And he struck me as the most singularly humble person I remember having ever encountered. I know that sounds extreme, but I've honestly never seen it - not in someone who is speaking in public and could be talking about how great it is he has been redeemed or whatever.
His humility made me fall back in love with Mary Karr when she said in response to Carr's off-hand remark that when Bill O'Reilly doesn't like what he says, he'll accuse him of being a crack addict, but that at least that's actually true....and anyway, that's the most interesting part of my life..."Oh bullshit David, that's the least interesting part of you." She meant this in a loving way, and it was gorgeous to see.
I didn't drool in front of anyone, and for that alone I am grateful. I felt I deserved my seat and that I could talk to these folks without fear, which is a new experience. I also rediscovered another obvious thing: I find it easier to talk with people who are clean and sober than drunk and stoned. Shock.
Before that Rik, the director of the reading of We live in financial times, and I had fun working out all the technical stuff for the staged reading this weekend at Brecht Forum. The Occupy Wall Street folks were having their general assembly in the space at 7pm, so we're obviously in the right place. If you haven't been to Brecht Forum, I do recommend checking it out. There seems to be all kinds of good stuff happening there, that is if you like your art and politics radical.
Having said that, let me assure you if you are coming to see the play, it is not agit prop didactic. I believe it's more complex than that - and with any luck will inspire a real conversation between bankers and OWS (who will be part of talk-back after the readings). That is probably wildly optimistic, but is my desire.
It's incredibly cold today, but that kind of makes me feel better - like I'm in the right season. I also love the coat I bought up in Maine, which is like wearing a big comforter (British: duvet). There's nothing quite as satisfying is feeling how cold it is, but being warm.
Yesterday spent the Whole Day aside from a small break for a meeting and about 15 minutes of yoga, sending invites out for the upcoming readings. So, like, if you're reading this and in NYC, please come along! It's gonna be interesting...
OK, now time for yoga and chilling out time...
Monday, January 9, 2012
Yoga, High Line & Invitation
Last night did some yoga - not in class but at home with guidance via the miracle of modern technology, this new fangled internet thing. That just undercut all the gremlins that were snapping like little rat-tail vipers in my head...ok so that's a weird image but you get the point.
Today I got up feeling surprisingly chipper and decided the best use of the afternoon with my friend Christian would be to walk the Highline - which if you haven't done it yet is kind of great. It's old above ground train tracks that had lay abandoned above the meat-packing district on the far West side of NYC. They were renovated to include park-ish space, including a mixture of plants natural to the old track area and some new growth, a walkway, benches and public art that gives public art a good name - not always easy - and is inspiring lots of interesting architecture in its wake. Some of it is just self-conscious but some is actually quite beautiful. One of the best views was down into a structure that looked like a giant white gauze geodesic dome/airplane hangar that was functioning as a trapeze artist's practice facility - seeing people - from our perch view above the structure hopping up and down on trapeze devices, falling on nets and hurling themselves around in the twilight was quite spectacular.
I don't have a photo of that, but got an OK photo with my phone-camera of the walk as twilight began:
I also watched the clouds, which were broken into little diamond-like pieces move in perfect formation slowly across the sky. Nice.
The last few days I have been engaged in and tonight (while eating my single person's idea of health food, what I have dubbed this evening Kalfredo - which is actually quite good, namely gluten-free pasta with Newman's own Alfredo sauce mixed together with steamed kale) just finished Mary Karr's Lit. This line, near the end of the book gives an example of why I think her writing is so fine, both in terms of form and content. "When you've been hurt enough as a kid (maybe at any age), it's like you have a trick knee. Most of your life, you can function like an adult, but add in the right portions of sleeplessness and stress and grief, and the hurt, defeated self can bloom in place."
Yeah, it can and does. Her ability to track her descent into alcoholism, recovery and extraordinary spiritual journey but also remain grounded in the muckier details of life instead of the we all lived happier ever after version is lovely. She is clearly someone with sober time under her belt. Also, and this is the most astonishing feat of all, she explain with crystal clarity how she went from being an atheist to being a Catholic. She is as surprised as anyone else by this conversion and her description of the experiences, thoughts and discussions that led to this - mostly instigated by her young son's spiritual curiosity but then confirmed by running into a series of well-spoken, devout religious people, some of whom she already knew, is done so well that I didn't feel like I had to spit while reading it.
Her experiences with some of her mentors reminded me of the Catholic hospital where my father died two years ago, how amazing the nurses - who may have been nuns and/or brothers I don't know but for whatever reason they all seemed to have some kind of numinous aura grounded in the very real, human muck of an ICU - how they fought the evil Kaiser Permanente insurers to keep him there rather than moving him to Kaiser's crappy hospital, which was an insane request for the last day of a man's life - especially as he was there because Kaiser sent him home after his first heart attack with some Tylenol so he had to get in an ambulance to bring him to this onc, which was closer to his house - how these nurses were so kind to me who was sitting there alone - staring at a shell of a person being kept alive by various tubes and breathing machines - not so much human as like a floppy toy in pain. The Scottish nurse brought me coffee, the South African nurse helped me understand the direness of the situation, so that through my jet lagged eyes I could see what needed to happen. But also, astonishingly, just sit there for hours and hours watching him, watching all my anger and resentment lift, watch myself have patience and not have to rush, be able to cope with his partner when she did show up many hours later in her grief and confusion struggling as she does with her own issues, which are many - to let him ago. Again. The details they thought through: the aromatherapy cream - lavender, the hand made pillow cases for his head as he was passing when the machines were taken off - the plaster cast of his hand - the soothing voices. The fact that as she did all this, the South African nurse was softlyy crying. And I thought - oh my God, does she cry all day? But it wasn't intrusive, it was compassionate. And the crucifixes everywhere were not grossing me out. The way this same nurse came up to me when we were leaving and said: you handled this so well. It made me cry. If I hadn't been sober for 23 years, meditated every day for 15 and prayed almost continually (silently) like all day, that would not have been the case.
No, I'm not Catholic and doubt I ever will be what the Pope issue and all, but the fact is I saw something I'd never seen before: the good side of Catholicism in action - devout people acting as they believed. I'm also not saying secular people can't do that, of course they can - it was just this extra that was there at that time.
Karr's book brought that back. Something about the humanity of it all - weirdly enough. There is something blood and guts about Catholicism, it's true, that the various varieties of Protestantism I was haphazardly exposed to can sometimes skirt around.
I wrote Karr an abject fan letter earlier this evening - for so many reasons. I imagine it will end up on a heap many feet tall and that's just fine. She deserves it. Do I envy her a little bit for nailing it so beautifully and so well, oh you bet I do, but begrudge her one tiny bit of the praise and support she has received, not a bit of it. She's showing me how it's done. I hope I can take the lessons, they are profound and it's not just about the writing.
So my gratitude today goes to the city of NYC for showing me its beauty tonight from the Highline, to my friend Christian for being a rock solid friend for so many years - since before I ever started the recovery process - and who has seen me now through two marriages - God help him - and our various spiritual and artistic quests, to Mary Karr who I've never met but has given me profound hope and even joy and to all of the (presumably) crazy ascetics who invented yoga, my deepest thanks.
I have had over the past few days begun missing aspects of the UK, which does not surprise me - what originally surprised me was the fact I wasn't missing them at first. One of those things - which I was reminded of watching Downton Abbey (we just started watching series 2 over here British friends - and I wish you all in the UK could see how we lap it up over here - it's hilarious) - namely, the lack of desire to spew out everything about everything all the time and the ability for people to get things with a raise of the eyebrow. Now, the fact I am writing this blog, which is so exposing and writing that I miss that level of reticence at the same time is truly absurd, but it's also true, so go figure. Lord knows, I can't. This same show, which kind of creeped me out when I was in the UK, I find charming when here. Joseph Albers was right about more than just color. You put the same thing in a different context and it changes - just like that.
I've also been overwhelmed recently by the provincialism of the US and even NYC - especially its triumphalism and the constant we are the greatest drum beat. It is kind of embarrassing. I think the fact the Republican primaries are now in full gear doesn't help. But also, and this is what I remember being guilty of myself, the voices of the left/dissent that speaks in a way that implies the US is the Worst place in the world. In other words, whatever it is, it has to be the -est of it...Worst-est, Best, Biggest, Stupidest, Smartest...whatever. It's like a whole country built on the piece of shit the world revolves around complex of the average alcoholic.
It's still home, though, for better or for worse...but, as I suspected I would discover when I came back, I've been in the UK for eight years, too, and I'm not just an American anymore either. I did write about this earlier in October, I'm now remembering...it's funny writing a daily blog, because I'll write about something like it's an original thought (of mine I mean - not original in the World) and then remember mid-typing - oh no, I already said that last month.
I'm keeping this in though, for a couple reasons - so I can see my repetitions but also because I know folks keep picking up this blog midstream.
Speaking of which: thanks again to all of you who read from all the many, many countries where you live. I wish I knew who you were. I can see from the statistics your numbers are growing, which is heartening. I know sometimes the comments section doesn't work properly but then it rights itself - so please feel free to comment and let me know who you are, what you think of this crazy thing and all like that...
Oh and I should mention for anyone in NYC, there will be a staged reading of We live in financial times at The Brecht Forum in the West Village at 7:30pm on January 20 & 21. Below is the official invite. I am not on Facebook, so if you are interested in helping me publicize this event, please feel free to lift the invite off of this post and paste it on your Facebook page. It should be an interesting two evenings, especially as it will feature a talk back with people from Occupy Wall Street and people from the banking industry. Should be quite a conversation.
Invite starts here:
Today I got up feeling surprisingly chipper and decided the best use of the afternoon with my friend Christian would be to walk the Highline - which if you haven't done it yet is kind of great. It's old above ground train tracks that had lay abandoned above the meat-packing district on the far West side of NYC. They were renovated to include park-ish space, including a mixture of plants natural to the old track area and some new growth, a walkway, benches and public art that gives public art a good name - not always easy - and is inspiring lots of interesting architecture in its wake. Some of it is just self-conscious but some is actually quite beautiful. One of the best views was down into a structure that looked like a giant white gauze geodesic dome/airplane hangar that was functioning as a trapeze artist's practice facility - seeing people - from our perch view above the structure hopping up and down on trapeze devices, falling on nets and hurling themselves around in the twilight was quite spectacular.
I don't have a photo of that, but got an OK photo with my phone-camera of the walk as twilight began:
this gives you some idea but building at end was pink from sun
 |
| you can see track and how plant life is both 'native' and sculptured - building is seminary |
I also watched the clouds, which were broken into little diamond-like pieces move in perfect formation slowly across the sky. Nice.
The last few days I have been engaged in and tonight (while eating my single person's idea of health food, what I have dubbed this evening Kalfredo - which is actually quite good, namely gluten-free pasta with Newman's own Alfredo sauce mixed together with steamed kale) just finished Mary Karr's Lit. This line, near the end of the book gives an example of why I think her writing is so fine, both in terms of form and content. "When you've been hurt enough as a kid (maybe at any age), it's like you have a trick knee. Most of your life, you can function like an adult, but add in the right portions of sleeplessness and stress and grief, and the hurt, defeated self can bloom in place."
Yeah, it can and does. Her ability to track her descent into alcoholism, recovery and extraordinary spiritual journey but also remain grounded in the muckier details of life instead of the we all lived happier ever after version is lovely. She is clearly someone with sober time under her belt. Also, and this is the most astonishing feat of all, she explain with crystal clarity how she went from being an atheist to being a Catholic. She is as surprised as anyone else by this conversion and her description of the experiences, thoughts and discussions that led to this - mostly instigated by her young son's spiritual curiosity but then confirmed by running into a series of well-spoken, devout religious people, some of whom she already knew, is done so well that I didn't feel like I had to spit while reading it.
Her experiences with some of her mentors reminded me of the Catholic hospital where my father died two years ago, how amazing the nurses - who may have been nuns and/or brothers I don't know but for whatever reason they all seemed to have some kind of numinous aura grounded in the very real, human muck of an ICU - how they fought the evil Kaiser Permanente insurers to keep him there rather than moving him to Kaiser's crappy hospital, which was an insane request for the last day of a man's life - especially as he was there because Kaiser sent him home after his first heart attack with some Tylenol so he had to get in an ambulance to bring him to this onc, which was closer to his house - how these nurses were so kind to me who was sitting there alone - staring at a shell of a person being kept alive by various tubes and breathing machines - not so much human as like a floppy toy in pain. The Scottish nurse brought me coffee, the South African nurse helped me understand the direness of the situation, so that through my jet lagged eyes I could see what needed to happen. But also, astonishingly, just sit there for hours and hours watching him, watching all my anger and resentment lift, watch myself have patience and not have to rush, be able to cope with his partner when she did show up many hours later in her grief and confusion struggling as she does with her own issues, which are many - to let him ago. Again. The details they thought through: the aromatherapy cream - lavender, the hand made pillow cases for his head as he was passing when the machines were taken off - the plaster cast of his hand - the soothing voices. The fact that as she did all this, the South African nurse was softlyy crying. And I thought - oh my God, does she cry all day? But it wasn't intrusive, it was compassionate. And the crucifixes everywhere were not grossing me out. The way this same nurse came up to me when we were leaving and said: you handled this so well. It made me cry. If I hadn't been sober for 23 years, meditated every day for 15 and prayed almost continually (silently) like all day, that would not have been the case.
No, I'm not Catholic and doubt I ever will be what the Pope issue and all, but the fact is I saw something I'd never seen before: the good side of Catholicism in action - devout people acting as they believed. I'm also not saying secular people can't do that, of course they can - it was just this extra that was there at that time.
Karr's book brought that back. Something about the humanity of it all - weirdly enough. There is something blood and guts about Catholicism, it's true, that the various varieties of Protestantism I was haphazardly exposed to can sometimes skirt around.
I wrote Karr an abject fan letter earlier this evening - for so many reasons. I imagine it will end up on a heap many feet tall and that's just fine. She deserves it. Do I envy her a little bit for nailing it so beautifully and so well, oh you bet I do, but begrudge her one tiny bit of the praise and support she has received, not a bit of it. She's showing me how it's done. I hope I can take the lessons, they are profound and it's not just about the writing.
So my gratitude today goes to the city of NYC for showing me its beauty tonight from the Highline, to my friend Christian for being a rock solid friend for so many years - since before I ever started the recovery process - and who has seen me now through two marriages - God help him - and our various spiritual and artistic quests, to Mary Karr who I've never met but has given me profound hope and even joy and to all of the (presumably) crazy ascetics who invented yoga, my deepest thanks.
I have had over the past few days begun missing aspects of the UK, which does not surprise me - what originally surprised me was the fact I wasn't missing them at first. One of those things - which I was reminded of watching Downton Abbey (we just started watching series 2 over here British friends - and I wish you all in the UK could see how we lap it up over here - it's hilarious) - namely, the lack of desire to spew out everything about everything all the time and the ability for people to get things with a raise of the eyebrow. Now, the fact I am writing this blog, which is so exposing and writing that I miss that level of reticence at the same time is truly absurd, but it's also true, so go figure. Lord knows, I can't. This same show, which kind of creeped me out when I was in the UK, I find charming when here. Joseph Albers was right about more than just color. You put the same thing in a different context and it changes - just like that.
I've also been overwhelmed recently by the provincialism of the US and even NYC - especially its triumphalism and the constant we are the greatest drum beat. It is kind of embarrassing. I think the fact the Republican primaries are now in full gear doesn't help. But also, and this is what I remember being guilty of myself, the voices of the left/dissent that speaks in a way that implies the US is the Worst place in the world. In other words, whatever it is, it has to be the -est of it...Worst-est, Best, Biggest, Stupidest, Smartest...whatever. It's like a whole country built on the piece of shit the world revolves around complex of the average alcoholic.
It's still home, though, for better or for worse...but, as I suspected I would discover when I came back, I've been in the UK for eight years, too, and I'm not just an American anymore either. I did write about this earlier in October, I'm now remembering...it's funny writing a daily blog, because I'll write about something like it's an original thought (of mine I mean - not original in the World) and then remember mid-typing - oh no, I already said that last month.
I'm keeping this in though, for a couple reasons - so I can see my repetitions but also because I know folks keep picking up this blog midstream.
Speaking of which: thanks again to all of you who read from all the many, many countries where you live. I wish I knew who you were. I can see from the statistics your numbers are growing, which is heartening. I know sometimes the comments section doesn't work properly but then it rights itself - so please feel free to comment and let me know who you are, what you think of this crazy thing and all like that...
Oh and I should mention for anyone in NYC, there will be a staged reading of We live in financial times at The Brecht Forum in the West Village at 7:30pm on January 20 & 21. Below is the official invite. I am not on Facebook, so if you are interested in helping me publicize this event, please feel free to lift the invite off of this post and paste it on your Facebook page. It should be an interesting two evenings, especially as it will feature a talk back with people from Occupy Wall Street and people from the banking industry. Should be quite a conversation.
Invite starts here:
We live in financial times, Part 1: Blackberry Curve
by Julia Lee Barclay
director: Rik Walter
performers:
Marietta Hedges*
Matt Higgins
Terry Runnels
Kevin Scott
Alyssa Simon*
at
The Brecht Forum
451 West Street (Bank & Bethune)
January 20 & 21
7:30pm
(includes talk-back with speakers from OWS and banking industry - should be a rollicking good time!)
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| Who's laughing now? |
We live in financial times, Part 1: Blackberry Curve is a darkly funny theatrical shell game wherein the conventions of character and story (in the form of Mike and James, investment bankers alone with an angry female voice they do not understand) collapse and attempt to frantically reassemble. Global capitalism as tragic farce.
Want reservations? Sure you do!
You can reserve directly through Brecht Forum at:
https://brechtforum.org/civicrm/event/info?id=12129&reset=1 (for Friday, January 20)
https://brechtforum.org/civicrm/event/info?id=12130&reset=1 (for Saturday, January 21)
If you can pay something, we are grateful, as it benefits The Brecht Forum and Theater of the Oppressed Laboratory, who have donated space and time, and the artists, all of whom are volunteering their time.
If, however, you are in the industry or need a comp for any reason, please RSVP at ftreservations@gmail.com with your name and affiliation (union, theater, freelance, whatever...). Your reservation is confirmed unless you hear back from us. If you cannot make it, please do get in touch, as we have limited seating each night.
The Brecht Forum, founded in 1975, is an independent educational and cultural institution serving New York's broad left and progressive communities. Throughout the year, the Brecht Forum offers a wide-ranging program of classes, public lectures and seminars, art exhibitions, performances, popular education workshops, and language classes. Some affiliated projects include the Institute for Popular Education, founded in 1990 in collaboration with the Theater of the Oppressed Laboratory; and Arts at the Brecht, which includes ongoing arts programming in collaboration with such projects as Neues Kabarett, an experimental jazz series initiated in 1998, Strike Anywhere Theater Ensemble, and Red Channels, a radical media collective.
The Theater of the Oppressed Laboratory (TOPLAB) was founded in 1990 and is the oldest group in the United States offering facilitation training in the techniques of Theater of the Oppressed, a methodology created in the 1960s and 1970s by Brazilian director Augusto Boal, with whom TOPLAB facilitators enjoyed a close collaboration and working relationship until his death in 2009.
The Theater of the Oppressed Laboratory (TOPLAB) was founded in 1990 and is the oldest group in the United States offering facilitation training in the techniques of Theater of the Oppressed, a methodology created in the 1960s and 1970s by Brazilian director Augusto Boal, with whom TOPLAB facilitators enjoyed a close collaboration and working relationship until his death in 2009.
*appearing courtesy AEA
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