Am doing the holiday at my parents' place in Maine melt into non-specific goo thing...it's sad as I knew it would be because my husband is not here and there are other family memories that come up when tree decorations that go back many years come out of the box.
On the other hand, last year my step-father Tom was very ill and so Christmas, while meaningful, was also very sad and kind of scary. This year that is not what is happening, so while I have loss in one sense, it is not that kind of loss for which I am grateful.
I'm watching Christmas episodes of Frasier now - in between writing this. Our tree is now decorated with the usual mix of ornaments from 100-5 years ago. My parents are in bed and I'm about to go upstairs and read. I come up here thinking I will find time to work on things but then end up in this haze, especially around Christmas.
I think that just kinda has to be OK, though. Today did some errands with my mother, which was pleasant. In places like Maine, though, I feel the fact I can't drive. I'm so used to cities and such, I'm not used to the feeling of being stranded unless someone drives me. Note to self: re-learn to drive.
I am though OK, that much I know. Was feeling badly but then talking with my mother found myself saying: you know, I'm really OK. And I am. And this is the constant amazement - for all the loss and things I want to do that haven't gotten done, etc., at depth I feel deeply OK. Like the opposite of falling apart.
There is a really weird ad on TV for Marc Jacobs - a designer I presume? Then an ad for exposure to asbestos law suits. Late night TV is weird. (OK, you really needed me to tell you that, I know, I know...)
It's also odd watching a TV show go through its seasons through Christmas specials.
I'm noticing now some of the really weird stuff about American culture, that I kind of knew before but having lived out of the country for long is now so blatant, like, for instance most all TV shows are cop shows or some form of crime fighting thing. The subtle or not-so-subtle message now is that forms of violence for the 'right reason' is OK in pursuit of so-called justice. This has shifted somewhat in recent years in that now torture is OK and there are more women who are cops and detectives, not just secretaries or assistants. The groups of cops/lawyers/detectives are generally multi-racial. But there is a basic line of law enforcement: good (except for corrupt ones) and everyone else: either naive or bad. The truth is out there and one of these people will find it.
In other words, all the humanity is on the side of the cops/detectives. When I was very young, I remember TV shows like 'It Takes a Thief' with Robert Wagner, which was a thief's POV. I had a weird attraction to this show, but for the life of me I can't remember why...but I did. I ate dinner in the living room to watch it. There were movies like Bonnie and Clyde and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Even the Godfather films were from criminal POV. Now it's all about the cops. The difference in the culture between the 1970s and now. We are now inflicted with post-9/11 TV. Of course this was the trend anyway, but now it's a solid. Get behind the law, trust it and know It's All For Your Own Good. Scary, right? Right?!
OK but true confessions: I do like the show Frasier, which follows a divorced psychiatrist who has a radio show, in case you, like me, didn't know that until recently, even though the show ran for years and has been re-running for even more years. At least it's not a cop show. It's silly but enjoyable for someone like me right now...for perhaps obvious reasons...
Well I hope you enjoy the holidays, whichever ones you celebrate. I think the biggest lesson for me this year and what this season can be about at its best is simple: go where the love is and stop chasing it or demanding it be or pretending it is where it's not. Sounds simple, right? It hasn't been for me. If it has been for you, I commend you. If it hasn't been easy for you, I understand. Here's hoping it's that kind of year for us all.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Beautiful day on the train
In the miracle that is modern travel, I can blog on the train. It is drop dead gorgeous outside the train window. Sunny, mid-winter side-lighting - the train goes by the ocean (Connecticut Sound), which is as still as a lake. If there could be such a thing as crimson blue that would be the color of the sky - not red but a depth of blue. There probably is a word for that - vermillion is it?..but then it resolves into pale blue with clouds in between - I'm forgetting the name of these kind of clouds - they are long and flat, dark on the bottom gently white and puffier on top. Whispy streaks of light cloud between. Trees without leaves making outlines in the skyline. No snow at all, not a smidgen. Ah yes, now the pylons and eletctric grid, now a wetland and houses on the Connecticut Sound, all the little colonials dotted along the water.
Yesterday saw Rauschenberg's private art collection and it was truly astonishing to see what he surrounded himself with because of course looking at it all together, you see one of his combines - everything from John Chamberlain's twisted car metal (and weirdly Chamberlain died yesterday just as Nicole and I were admiring his constructions - 1924-2011 - a good run and RIP - gorgeous work he made) to John Cage and Morton Feldman's scores. Also one of Stockhausen's miraculous musical constructions. Merce Cunningham's notes, lots of Andy Warhol's work and even, Even a 1986 construction by Damien Hirst that had Soul. I was shocked, shocked. There was a Calder chicken - lovely, a number of Duchamps, of course, a Kurt Schwitters collage and Jasper Johns...also a Joan Jonas drawing of a wolf-like creature that was magic. There was, too, an amazing black and white photo of the New Jersey skyline from Manhattan circa 1980 while Battery Park City was being built. I can't remember the name of the photographer but wrote it down somewhere because I want to see more of his work. The sky, similar clouds to the one I described above - the photo was about 3-4 feet long... beautiful.
Ooh now there are swans. I think we are close to Providence, where I was born. Where my father went to RISD and aspired to being an artist. He was an artist, I wish he had pursued it more. Is that why I stopped? Because of the connection with him? I don't know.
Yes it's Providence, and the train is making that lovely train whistle sound - the one I can hear from my apartment in NYC as well, because I'm close to the Hudson Line. It's a haunting sound, whether you hear it from far away or are in the train. Something about train travel has soul - it means something. Why? I don't know, but there's a rumble to it - something about tracks meant only for the train, these bridges, this water, this blue, this pale sky. The water. God, I love the water, tidal water.
Providence, what a name for a city. Some abandoned warehouses - so many of them now have been colonized and turned to 'good use' as software companies or art galleries or whatever. I know that's good but because my childhood was spent going up and down the Northeastern corridor on Amtrak, I miss the abandoned warehouses. Something about the resplendent nature of the dilapidated 1970s before everything had to get so godforsaken Done Up for the 1980s onward.
Something about a world that was Not seamless. Remember that? Before we were instantly reachable, GPS-able and able to blog on the train - back when people who were reading, read you know books instead of iPads, Kindles or whatever.
What are we losing? Something about the tactile, the visceral even, smells, tastes...I say this typing on my Macbook with my smartphone next to me, FYI, just so I don't sound like I'm trying to pretend I'm anywhere else than Right Here With Everyone Else...though I can't seem to get into the reading on a tablet thing. A friend leant me his and I haven't used it yet. I went to B&N yesterday and bought a bunch of books. I counted and I have at least 1000 books in my studio, at least. Already filled 3 7'- shelves and can use 2 more. I love books, as in printed books.
I say this and then remember I should tell you that three of my plays are now available online. They can be purchased for a little over a dollar at Indie Theater Now. They are all listed on the publications list to the right of the post. The new plays, some of which have not been published elsewhere are: The Jesus Guy, Besides, you lose your soul or the History of Western Civilization and Future Worlds: Tricorn Init! If you like my writing on this blog, please do check out this site and maybe download some of these plays, because unlike any other publications so far, for these I can actually get paid a small royalty for each purchase....So, support an experimental playwright, go on! There are lots of great playwrights on this site, and I think there may be some way to get a subscription as well...
So, having just waxed poetic about hard copies, I now tell you to buy something online. Oh well. Anyone who has been reading this blog will not be surprised at a lack of consistency. Anyone who knows any other human being in any depth at all will also not be surprised at a lack of consistency.
By the way, when I thought I was close to Providence, I was wrong. I think we were in fact close to New London. There was a Block Island Ferry, which means of course: New London. You can retrace back to earlier posts for grizzly details about my time living in Waterford and New London. Basically think: Liars' Club meets Connecticut Valley (the Valley, btw, is Not Cheever country or any of those other writers who write about Connecticut, meaning suburbs of NYC - the only well-known writer who had even a slight bead on the Valley would be Richard Ford - it's a class thing...)
I think I may wrap this up now and read an actual paper book...something crazy like that, as the woman next to me texts like mad, eats chips (UK: crisps), wipes grease on her trousers and listens to her iPod while also looking at her iPad.
Seriously.
Wish me luck!
Yesterday saw Rauschenberg's private art collection and it was truly astonishing to see what he surrounded himself with because of course looking at it all together, you see one of his combines - everything from John Chamberlain's twisted car metal (and weirdly Chamberlain died yesterday just as Nicole and I were admiring his constructions - 1924-2011 - a good run and RIP - gorgeous work he made) to John Cage and Morton Feldman's scores. Also one of Stockhausen's miraculous musical constructions. Merce Cunningham's notes, lots of Andy Warhol's work and even, Even a 1986 construction by Damien Hirst that had Soul. I was shocked, shocked. There was a Calder chicken - lovely, a number of Duchamps, of course, a Kurt Schwitters collage and Jasper Johns...also a Joan Jonas drawing of a wolf-like creature that was magic. There was, too, an amazing black and white photo of the New Jersey skyline from Manhattan circa 1980 while Battery Park City was being built. I can't remember the name of the photographer but wrote it down somewhere because I want to see more of his work. The sky, similar clouds to the one I described above - the photo was about 3-4 feet long... beautiful.
Ooh now there are swans. I think we are close to Providence, where I was born. Where my father went to RISD and aspired to being an artist. He was an artist, I wish he had pursued it more. Is that why I stopped? Because of the connection with him? I don't know.
Yes it's Providence, and the train is making that lovely train whistle sound - the one I can hear from my apartment in NYC as well, because I'm close to the Hudson Line. It's a haunting sound, whether you hear it from far away or are in the train. Something about train travel has soul - it means something. Why? I don't know, but there's a rumble to it - something about tracks meant only for the train, these bridges, this water, this blue, this pale sky. The water. God, I love the water, tidal water.
Providence, what a name for a city. Some abandoned warehouses - so many of them now have been colonized and turned to 'good use' as software companies or art galleries or whatever. I know that's good but because my childhood was spent going up and down the Northeastern corridor on Amtrak, I miss the abandoned warehouses. Something about the resplendent nature of the dilapidated 1970s before everything had to get so godforsaken Done Up for the 1980s onward.
Something about a world that was Not seamless. Remember that? Before we were instantly reachable, GPS-able and able to blog on the train - back when people who were reading, read you know books instead of iPads, Kindles or whatever.
What are we losing? Something about the tactile, the visceral even, smells, tastes...I say this typing on my Macbook with my smartphone next to me, FYI, just so I don't sound like I'm trying to pretend I'm anywhere else than Right Here With Everyone Else...though I can't seem to get into the reading on a tablet thing. A friend leant me his and I haven't used it yet. I went to B&N yesterday and bought a bunch of books. I counted and I have at least 1000 books in my studio, at least. Already filled 3 7'- shelves and can use 2 more. I love books, as in printed books.
I say this and then remember I should tell you that three of my plays are now available online. They can be purchased for a little over a dollar at Indie Theater Now. They are all listed on the publications list to the right of the post. The new plays, some of which have not been published elsewhere are: The Jesus Guy, Besides, you lose your soul or the History of Western Civilization and Future Worlds: Tricorn Init! If you like my writing on this blog, please do check out this site and maybe download some of these plays, because unlike any other publications so far, for these I can actually get paid a small royalty for each purchase....So, support an experimental playwright, go on! There are lots of great playwrights on this site, and I think there may be some way to get a subscription as well...
So, having just waxed poetic about hard copies, I now tell you to buy something online. Oh well. Anyone who has been reading this blog will not be surprised at a lack of consistency. Anyone who knows any other human being in any depth at all will also not be surprised at a lack of consistency.
By the way, when I thought I was close to Providence, I was wrong. I think we were in fact close to New London. There was a Block Island Ferry, which means of course: New London. You can retrace back to earlier posts for grizzly details about my time living in Waterford and New London. Basically think: Liars' Club meets Connecticut Valley (the Valley, btw, is Not Cheever country or any of those other writers who write about Connecticut, meaning suburbs of NYC - the only well-known writer who had even a slight bead on the Valley would be Richard Ford - it's a class thing...)
I think I may wrap this up now and read an actual paper book...something crazy like that, as the woman next to me texts like mad, eats chips (UK: crisps), wipes grease on her trousers and listens to her iPod while also looking at her iPad.
Seriously.
Wish me luck!
Christmas blues and prayers for something like joy - like, say, joy
Was plowing along today getting stuff done and happy with myself for doing it, up to and including see the show at Gagosian Gallery of Rauschenberg's private collection.
Then watched a silly movie called Kissing Jessica Stein - the subject isn't that important except that it deals with relationships, identity and being true to yourself and the last song was about letting someone go and it just made me feel very sad about the separation with my husband and it hit me again like a ton of proverbial bricks that this will be the first Christmas in 10 years I have not spent with him and that when we first got together was Jan. 11, 2002 and I knew he was arriving that Christmas, so was happy and excited that he would be visiting me in NYC even in 2001.
Now I am going up to my parents' house tomorrow alone and it kinda sucks, like a lot. I should be asleep but I can't stop crying. Will hope that at some point that shifts, because I do need to get up relatively early.
I really wish at times like this that I was the kind of person that could glide into a new relationship quickly, but I'm not. I was even saying earlier today to my friend Nicole that I feel OK about being alone and like I never want to be with anyone who has any doubts about being with me. I felt it at the time, now it just feels like brave talk. That's not true, though, because I know there has been a change.
But that doesn't take away the raw, horrendous pain of the sadness of grieving. But I just read something today in a book's epigraph, which I hope proves to be true:
Then watched a silly movie called Kissing Jessica Stein - the subject isn't that important except that it deals with relationships, identity and being true to yourself and the last song was about letting someone go and it just made me feel very sad about the separation with my husband and it hit me again like a ton of proverbial bricks that this will be the first Christmas in 10 years I have not spent with him and that when we first got together was Jan. 11, 2002 and I knew he was arriving that Christmas, so was happy and excited that he would be visiting me in NYC even in 2001.
Now I am going up to my parents' house tomorrow alone and it kinda sucks, like a lot. I should be asleep but I can't stop crying. Will hope that at some point that shifts, because I do need to get up relatively early.
I really wish at times like this that I was the kind of person that could glide into a new relationship quickly, but I'm not. I was even saying earlier today to my friend Nicole that I feel OK about being alone and like I never want to be with anyone who has any doubts about being with me. I felt it at the time, now it just feels like brave talk. That's not true, though, because I know there has been a change.
But that doesn't take away the raw, horrendous pain of the sadness of grieving. But I just read something today in a book's epigraph, which I hope proves to be true:
The gloom of the world is but a shadow;
behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.
Take joy.
- Fra Giovanni Giocondo
I feel I have been very long in shadow. In yet another book today, I read an Emerson quote about blocking the sun through one's own shadow. So, maybe there is a theme here.
The sadness is real, yes, but I need to be brave enough, some day to take joy. I will need a lot of help with that. It does not come naturally. It's scary even. I hate admitting this. I really do hate it, because it feels like I'm short-changing grief. But am I? Has pain just become a habit? Have I simply experienced so much loss in my life, it's grooved in like an old pair of shoes?
Dear God, Goddess, Whomever/s...if this is so, please help me surrender this habit. Please, please, please. Show me the joy within my reach and help me to take it. For some of us who did not have real childhoods I think this may be harder than for others.
On the other hand, in going through old papers, I stumbled upon something truly astonishing - a photo of me lying on the bed in the cottage in Maine - a bed on the sun porch. I have two kittens sleeping on me and I'm reading a book, but I've taken it away from my face to smile - sincerely - for the camera. I can't quite place my age in the photo. But the obvious thing is this: in that bed, with the kitten and the book, I feel safe and happy. I think I may be 12 or 13.
I loved the cottage, and I always felt safe there. I was always safe there. So, maybe there, maybe the memories of that cottage are the place to start. Not to wipe away the other stuff, but to remember this part of me, too, the part that survived, thrived even. I fear writing this, I really do, like I'm somehow diminishing all the other crap. But perhaps not. Perhaps not. Perhaps happiness and even joy is not a fake. Perhaps it is the shadow that is the illusion. Wouldn't that be amazing. Wouldn't it just?
I have a feeling the reality is somewhere in between, though. Because in the same way you can't have life without death, you can't have light without dark. The contrast is what defines the essential nature of the other. But I have been spending a lot of time in the dark. Maybe it's time to let in a little light and see what happens - hopefully I haven't just atrophied into a fungus.
We can only hope.
OK, really gotta get some sleep now. Next post will be in Maine...
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
driving, driven, then driven mad in a day when nothing goes to plan
This was one of those - thought I had found free bookshelves, but needed to pick them up. A combination of one friend with van and another who could drive came into focus, but got difficult. I knew in my heart of hearts I should let it go and go see The Muppets Movie with my friend Christian as planned...but No It was Too Important to Pass Up Free Bookshelves. The other friends involved were also extending themselves past their limits. And we all paid for this, the driving friend got the worst of it when she was driving her motorcycle to pick up the van and a car ran into her. She is OK, but her leg needs to be x-rayed. She insisted - in a way I know I would have done but nonetheless made me nervous - that she drive back to her house and go to a hospital close by. When she called me she was waiting in the ER and with another friend. She apologized to me over and over again. Even though that was absurd, I knew if I had been her, I would have done the same. It's psycho. She even wanted initially to drive the van to pick up the bookshelves, even though she was limping. I talked her out of that at least.
There are therefore no bookshelves in my house, which is not the issue at all here. The issue is: why did all three of us extend ourselves past what we knew we could do? I was exhausted even before this little misadventure, N with the van was supposed to be spending time with his partner and E was supposed to be having a leisurely time with friends at a dinner party. I know the answer, sort of, and will let those of you are also friends of Bill and Lois W figure it out all by yourselves. It's that driving force - that can drive you to succeed sometimes but mostly just drives you and in particular drives you mad. It comes stealthily in the guise of 'helping others' or 'this must get done' but it's a liar.
I came back home exhausted and insisted on unpacking more boxes, which is why I'm writing this at 2:50am. I can't let myself be human anymore than my other two friends can. It is in fact a disease.
On the bright side, I only have 11 boxes left on the floor (a few are already in closet). And only 8 are unopened. There will be space in closet and such for most of the rest of stuff but wanted books out. We'll see. I imagine somehow more bookshelves will appear on the island of Manhattan.
OK, I am beyond toast now, so signing off.
I am grateful beyond measure for my lovely friends and hope we all finally learn to take care of ourselves. I think I know my New Year's resolution now, and it will have something to do with putting myself first - finally. It's always the better way - ironically enough for everyone involved. Because when I overstretch Everyone Pays at some point...But even writing it 'putting myself first' I hear the voice of my psycho babysitter telling me I'm selfish, my angry grandmother saying the same and my angry first step-father. Basically the whack jobs of my childhood. So, like, consider the source.
I want to schedule some time at Kripalu, a lovely yoga retreat, maybe at the beginning of the year, to launch this and also to be there on or around the anniversary of my father's death, which is Jan. 7. Please root for me that I manage to do this rather than listening to all the specious objections in my head.
There are therefore no bookshelves in my house, which is not the issue at all here. The issue is: why did all three of us extend ourselves past what we knew we could do? I was exhausted even before this little misadventure, N with the van was supposed to be spending time with his partner and E was supposed to be having a leisurely time with friends at a dinner party. I know the answer, sort of, and will let those of you are also friends of Bill and Lois W figure it out all by yourselves. It's that driving force - that can drive you to succeed sometimes but mostly just drives you and in particular drives you mad. It comes stealthily in the guise of 'helping others' or 'this must get done' but it's a liar.
I came back home exhausted and insisted on unpacking more boxes, which is why I'm writing this at 2:50am. I can't let myself be human anymore than my other two friends can. It is in fact a disease.
On the bright side, I only have 11 boxes left on the floor (a few are already in closet). And only 8 are unopened. There will be space in closet and such for most of the rest of stuff but wanted books out. We'll see. I imagine somehow more bookshelves will appear on the island of Manhattan.
OK, I am beyond toast now, so signing off.
I am grateful beyond measure for my lovely friends and hope we all finally learn to take care of ourselves. I think I know my New Year's resolution now, and it will have something to do with putting myself first - finally. It's always the better way - ironically enough for everyone involved. Because when I overstretch Everyone Pays at some point...But even writing it 'putting myself first' I hear the voice of my psycho babysitter telling me I'm selfish, my angry grandmother saying the same and my angry first step-father. Basically the whack jobs of my childhood. So, like, consider the source.
I want to schedule some time at Kripalu, a lovely yoga retreat, maybe at the beginning of the year, to launch this and also to be there on or around the anniversary of my father's death, which is Jan. 7. Please root for me that I manage to do this rather than listening to all the specious objections in my head.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Women, voices, ownership...and not unpacking
After a marathon session yesterday (hence no blog post), I did no unpacking today, but instead went with a friend who had extra tickets to Relatively Speaking a Broadway show of one-acts by Ethan Cohen, Elaine May and Woody Allen. The real writer of the three playwrights - by a mile - is Elaine May. The other two pieces by Cohen and Allen were sophomoric (as in: if Cohen had written it at 14 it might be considered semi-precocious, clever comedy but for an adult - meh) and a series of one-liners justifying in retrospect his marrying of his step-daughter (Allen). Ha ha ha.
OK, so...was glad to see the Elaine May play. Also really glad the tickets were free and my friend Tamara and I agreed in our assessments of each piece. Marlo Thomas, btw, can still act (she was in the May play).
The surprise was later tonight after watching Downton Abbey (don't hate me - it's just weirdly compelling watching it now that I've left the UK - has a whole other feel to it - but more on that whole thing later in another post), was a documentary called The Woodmans, about the photographer Francesca Woodman, who killed herself at age 22 in 1981 and her parents and brother who are also all well-known artists.
I was so struck by the documentary for a number of reasons - the honesty of her parents, the whole family's devotion to art, but more than that, the way people talked about Francesca's work as if she would inevitably become famous when one of the many reasons she killed herself by walking off the top of a building in Soho was that she didn't get a stupid NEA grant. Obviously, that was not the only reason, but my point is it is obvious watching the film that her photos were/are amazing but that they are only Now being recognized, because what she was doing was so spectacularly ahead of her time.
The heartbreaking journal entries including her being harassed by her boyfriend late at night for not making real art ring so weirdly true to me (as I have had similar relationships with men at that age and even into my 20s and 30s - both romantic/partners and professors and so-called 'mentors'...). Seeing her work, it is so obviously a female language - I am not one to use that term lightly and in general despise it when others do...but here it is important, because I think that's why it was overlooked.
Apparently in the early 80s photography was not as big of a deal as it is now, which could also be true. But if you go look at her stuff you may see what I mean.
So, I take her death personally, even if clearly she had her own reasons and obviously many people have had these issues and not killed themselves.
It just makes me angry how long - in general - female artists have to wait to be recognized, to be SEEN or understood on the most basic level, because it's a different language, or can be. Or maybe it's just the way we present ourselves. The amount of conversations I have had recently with women about how we wish we had even a tiny ounce of male ego - the ability to easily justify one's own work and not take every criticism to heart or as gospel or to be defensive, etc. - is extraordinary. The ability to self-promote without shame. The ability to hold to a vision without the need to justify...etc., etc...
I'm not blaming men here, by the way, in case any of you are feeling that - no, I'm Admiring that about you and wish I had some of it! I do have some but not nearly enough...and certainly had none at age 19-20. There were so many things I was doing then artistically, theatrically and with writing (though some just needed to get better) but more importantly ideas and presentation...and directing...but I could not stand up for them. I had enough guts/ego/whatever to make work but not to push it forward the way I should/could have done. And if I had had any of those skills would be in a much better place today.
I know that probably sounds like self-pity, but I don't mean it that way - it's just a fact. I can see all the lines of thought - ideas - art I did not go down out of fear and kind of now wish I had.
I also have gone down some roads and had some success with it, but I have not developed these things as far as they could go, and so watch others pick up where I left off and get well-known for doing so, which is both somewhat gratifying and then incredibly frustrating.
These people are usually men.
So my prayer is: please god/dess who/what/ever you are...please allow me to own my own voice/path/ way and stop waiting in some weird cosmic lobby for permission. I have found my voice in many ways, but I need now to OWN it, which is different. It is ownership itself that is part of the problem actually - one way I don't tend towards naturally...I share this with many other women (and some men). So the language gets very confusing. Is it possible to OWN non-ownership, e.g.? You see where it can fall down...
However, seeing a documentary about someone who is now famous, but was not in her lifetime, because this weird machine basically killed her (that's how it appears in any case)...but then having eaten her alive decided to valorize her (no better artist than a dead one, naturally...), I am grateful for avoiding that fate, so far...
Not that I'm in any imminent danger of fame, mind you, but the eaten alive thing...I feel I've had some brushes with that...
I want to keep living, but along with that, I want to keep creating...I want to know before I die that I have put everything out on the table that I can and that I will have the guts to do that no matter what the reaction from others. I've talked a good game on that one, but not sure I've walked the talk. I don't think it's possible to not be affected at all, but I want to not be so easily influenced.
I think at least this is within my reach. All the other stuff about recognition is out of my hands anyway. Wish me luck...with that and finding a place for the 17 or so boxes of books and papers in my Rubik's cube of a studio apartment. I'm almost out of shelf space, so we're about to get down to nooks and crannies and shoving stuff into the closets.
Fun.
But then again putting my books where I want them and beginning to take ownership of this place is fun. There's the 'o' word again and no I don't mean orgasm, I mean 'ownership' - way more radical for women I think...in the way I mean it anyway (clearly I'm not talking about products...)
G'night and blessings to you all. I wish for you all ownership of your own voice in whatever form that may take, especially for the women, but including any men who need the encouragement - yes, I do believe gender is a construct, just like all the rest of reality, but it does not budge easily... inside or outside...
OK, so...was glad to see the Elaine May play. Also really glad the tickets were free and my friend Tamara and I agreed in our assessments of each piece. Marlo Thomas, btw, can still act (she was in the May play).
The surprise was later tonight after watching Downton Abbey (don't hate me - it's just weirdly compelling watching it now that I've left the UK - has a whole other feel to it - but more on that whole thing later in another post), was a documentary called The Woodmans, about the photographer Francesca Woodman, who killed herself at age 22 in 1981 and her parents and brother who are also all well-known artists.
I was so struck by the documentary for a number of reasons - the honesty of her parents, the whole family's devotion to art, but more than that, the way people talked about Francesca's work as if she would inevitably become famous when one of the many reasons she killed herself by walking off the top of a building in Soho was that she didn't get a stupid NEA grant. Obviously, that was not the only reason, but my point is it is obvious watching the film that her photos were/are amazing but that they are only Now being recognized, because what she was doing was so spectacularly ahead of her time.
The heartbreaking journal entries including her being harassed by her boyfriend late at night for not making real art ring so weirdly true to me (as I have had similar relationships with men at that age and even into my 20s and 30s - both romantic/partners and professors and so-called 'mentors'...). Seeing her work, it is so obviously a female language - I am not one to use that term lightly and in general despise it when others do...but here it is important, because I think that's why it was overlooked.
Apparently in the early 80s photography was not as big of a deal as it is now, which could also be true. But if you go look at her stuff you may see what I mean.
So, I take her death personally, even if clearly she had her own reasons and obviously many people have had these issues and not killed themselves.
It just makes me angry how long - in general - female artists have to wait to be recognized, to be SEEN or understood on the most basic level, because it's a different language, or can be. Or maybe it's just the way we present ourselves. The amount of conversations I have had recently with women about how we wish we had even a tiny ounce of male ego - the ability to easily justify one's own work and not take every criticism to heart or as gospel or to be defensive, etc. - is extraordinary. The ability to self-promote without shame. The ability to hold to a vision without the need to justify...etc., etc...
I'm not blaming men here, by the way, in case any of you are feeling that - no, I'm Admiring that about you and wish I had some of it! I do have some but not nearly enough...and certainly had none at age 19-20. There were so many things I was doing then artistically, theatrically and with writing (though some just needed to get better) but more importantly ideas and presentation...and directing...but I could not stand up for them. I had enough guts/ego/whatever to make work but not to push it forward the way I should/could have done. And if I had had any of those skills would be in a much better place today.
I know that probably sounds like self-pity, but I don't mean it that way - it's just a fact. I can see all the lines of thought - ideas - art I did not go down out of fear and kind of now wish I had.
I also have gone down some roads and had some success with it, but I have not developed these things as far as they could go, and so watch others pick up where I left off and get well-known for doing so, which is both somewhat gratifying and then incredibly frustrating.
These people are usually men.
So my prayer is: please god/dess who/what/ever you are...please allow me to own my own voice/path/ way and stop waiting in some weird cosmic lobby for permission. I have found my voice in many ways, but I need now to OWN it, which is different. It is ownership itself that is part of the problem actually - one way I don't tend towards naturally...I share this with many other women (and some men). So the language gets very confusing. Is it possible to OWN non-ownership, e.g.? You see where it can fall down...
However, seeing a documentary about someone who is now famous, but was not in her lifetime, because this weird machine basically killed her (that's how it appears in any case)...but then having eaten her alive decided to valorize her (no better artist than a dead one, naturally...), I am grateful for avoiding that fate, so far...
Not that I'm in any imminent danger of fame, mind you, but the eaten alive thing...I feel I've had some brushes with that...
I want to keep living, but along with that, I want to keep creating...I want to know before I die that I have put everything out on the table that I can and that I will have the guts to do that no matter what the reaction from others. I've talked a good game on that one, but not sure I've walked the talk. I don't think it's possible to not be affected at all, but I want to not be so easily influenced.
I think at least this is within my reach. All the other stuff about recognition is out of my hands anyway. Wish me luck...with that and finding a place for the 17 or so boxes of books and papers in my Rubik's cube of a studio apartment. I'm almost out of shelf space, so we're about to get down to nooks and crannies and shoving stuff into the closets.
Fun.
But then again putting my books where I want them and beginning to take ownership of this place is fun. There's the 'o' word again and no I don't mean orgasm, I mean 'ownership' - way more radical for women I think...in the way I mean it anyway (clearly I'm not talking about products...)
G'night and blessings to you all. I wish for you all ownership of your own voice in whatever form that may take, especially for the women, but including any men who need the encouragement - yes, I do believe gender is a construct, just like all the rest of reality, but it does not budge easily... inside or outside...
Saturday, December 17, 2011
More unpacking...
which is of course a metaphor in and of itself...only got through about 8 more boxes tonight. I really can't seem to do a lot at a time, but somehow am almost half-way through, so the math makes no sense...
Tonight the thing that did me in was looking through my first art sketch book. It was a drawing I did of my mother, back when I was 13 years old. This was when it was discovered that I was "good at art." The drawing actually does look like my mother and it made me realize tonight I was actually quite good. This realization made me cry, because I know I did not know that or if any part of me did know it, it was only as an external validation, nothing I could own.
**
I'm watching a movie called The Station Agent as I'm typing this. It's kind of great - about a small guy (a dwarf) who inherits a train depot in Newfoundland, NJ and is befriended by a Latino hot dog vendor and a female artist separated from her husband whose son died a couple years ago who almost runs him over, then a young black girl who also likes trains and meets him while he's walking the track.
I love this kind of film, simple, human and hilarious and sad because the people are hilarious and sad - not fancy plots, just people. Nice.
**
So now during the commercial break: back to Julia and visual art. Because I was brought into the advanced art class at 14 (the one for seniors who were 17 or 18), I felt honored but also pressured and inadequate. And this is the real fact: at that age, I could not bear the amount of time I had to sit by myself to work. I was so frozen that there was no there there, only an ice cold tundra, so theater, the group sport, won out. I ended up directing originally before writing, probably for the same reason. Though I did write a lot, it wasn't with the same precision or skill and definitely not the joy that I experienced working in theater.
This makes me very sad now, to think that I made an artistic decision primarily based on the fact that I could not sit with myself for lengths of time. I mean I could and I did, but I did not enjoy it, it felt lonely - because I could not keep myself company. I could not because I had exited the building very early on to survive. I also did not understand myself as creative at all. I felt like a cipher of some kind - a very weirdly talented (because I was told I was tho I didn't believe it) puppet, basically.
I wonder if now the reason I am feeling more inclined to writing and photography is that I feel more and more comfortable within my own skin. I also don't feel like a puppet, certainly not empty or frozen. I don't feel the need to jump out of myself, and when I spend time alone, I generally feel better and warmer than when I am among people for too long. If I am too social for too long these days, I feel somewhat drained and diffuse. I do like seeing people, but there's something enjoyable these days about time spent by myself, especially oddly enough that I am now separated. Before when I was with B and he was gone, I would feel lonelier, because I was theoretically married, but I was alone. Now when I'm alone, it's me and my cat and that's cool.
This movie I am watching kind of deals with similar things to do with self-acceptance and social exclusion.
But here's what I find: when I am connected with myself, it's a lot easier to connect with other people and balance out the time to spend with and spend alone. When I'm running around too much or doing too much Stuff, I lose all that.
Note about TV commercials during holidays: there are an awful lot of ads for diamonds....B asked me to marry him close to Christmas in 2005, so I imagine this will continue to be lots of fun...this so-called season.
**
Just watched the end of the movie and it was as understated as the movie itself. Simple and nice.
My cat is lying next to me - he finally did make it up to the loft bed last night and slept with me for a while. It's just astonishing to me that this was the cat who would not leave the space behind the sofa a little over a month ago.
There's hope for us all, furry and less furry creatures.
Tonight the thing that did me in was looking through my first art sketch book. It was a drawing I did of my mother, back when I was 13 years old. This was when it was discovered that I was "good at art." The drawing actually does look like my mother and it made me realize tonight I was actually quite good. This realization made me cry, because I know I did not know that or if any part of me did know it, it was only as an external validation, nothing I could own.
**
I'm watching a movie called The Station Agent as I'm typing this. It's kind of great - about a small guy (a dwarf) who inherits a train depot in Newfoundland, NJ and is befriended by a Latino hot dog vendor and a female artist separated from her husband whose son died a couple years ago who almost runs him over, then a young black girl who also likes trains and meets him while he's walking the track.
I love this kind of film, simple, human and hilarious and sad because the people are hilarious and sad - not fancy plots, just people. Nice.
**
So now during the commercial break: back to Julia and visual art. Because I was brought into the advanced art class at 14 (the one for seniors who were 17 or 18), I felt honored but also pressured and inadequate. And this is the real fact: at that age, I could not bear the amount of time I had to sit by myself to work. I was so frozen that there was no there there, only an ice cold tundra, so theater, the group sport, won out. I ended up directing originally before writing, probably for the same reason. Though I did write a lot, it wasn't with the same precision or skill and definitely not the joy that I experienced working in theater.
This makes me very sad now, to think that I made an artistic decision primarily based on the fact that I could not sit with myself for lengths of time. I mean I could and I did, but I did not enjoy it, it felt lonely - because I could not keep myself company. I could not because I had exited the building very early on to survive. I also did not understand myself as creative at all. I felt like a cipher of some kind - a very weirdly talented (because I was told I was tho I didn't believe it) puppet, basically.
I wonder if now the reason I am feeling more inclined to writing and photography is that I feel more and more comfortable within my own skin. I also don't feel like a puppet, certainly not empty or frozen. I don't feel the need to jump out of myself, and when I spend time alone, I generally feel better and warmer than when I am among people for too long. If I am too social for too long these days, I feel somewhat drained and diffuse. I do like seeing people, but there's something enjoyable these days about time spent by myself, especially oddly enough that I am now separated. Before when I was with B and he was gone, I would feel lonelier, because I was theoretically married, but I was alone. Now when I'm alone, it's me and my cat and that's cool.
This movie I am watching kind of deals with similar things to do with self-acceptance and social exclusion.
But here's what I find: when I am connected with myself, it's a lot easier to connect with other people and balance out the time to spend with and spend alone. When I'm running around too much or doing too much Stuff, I lose all that.
Note about TV commercials during holidays: there are an awful lot of ads for diamonds....B asked me to marry him close to Christmas in 2005, so I imagine this will continue to be lots of fun...this so-called season.
**
Just watched the end of the movie and it was as understated as the movie itself. Simple and nice.
My cat is lying next to me - he finally did make it up to the loft bed last night and slept with me for a while. It's just astonishing to me that this was the cat who would not leave the space behind the sofa a little over a month ago.
There's hope for us all, furry and less furry creatures.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Unpacking London (and the rest of my life)
It started with the movers showing up at the improbable hour of 8am. If you knew movers were driving from Pennsylvania and you had not been given an ETA, would you think they would show up at 8am? No, me neither. So I drag myself out of bed (a loft bed, so it's a maneuver), answer the doorbell to the building, throw on some clothes over my nightgown and answer the door when this older fellow rings that bell telling me he's got a delivery. I am bleary and still cannot believe they are here. He comes in to look at the apartment, thinking - as I did in advance - there's not enough space, then leaves to 'prepare the delivery.' I run into bathroom in my 5 minute window, throw on regular clothes and make coffee.
I then 'supervise' the arrival of 53 items, mostly boxes and watch my studio apartment transform from living space to storage facility. The guys leave and I give them a tip. It's New York, you have to tip. They seem charmingly surprised, but in a mannered 'we have to pretend to be surprised' way - but also seem grateful, too. This paid off when the guy returned with two boxes we had both forgotten.
Then I started pulling out clothes and such, thinking that would be the easy part. That was the dumb part, because the London smell came out of the boxes with the clothes and linens. Then I could not figure out what to do. I managed to leave the apartment only twice, and of course ran out of cell phone minutes. As the day wore on and I tried to find places for stuff, I cried more and more.
For some reason, even though I had shelves at the ready, I could not open the book boxes. I did after talking to a friend who asked me what I could do to help myself, as by that time I was freaking out, crying and not knowing what to do next. I said I wanted to unpack two boxes of books so I could see the TV and zone out. She said that sounded like a good idea, so I did that, then went for a walk and talked to my good friend Julie and proceeded to sob while walking and talking in Inwood Park at night. (Don't worry I was on well lit paths)...I realized that books were so potent because when things were good with my husband, we shared ideas and our work and that was very important. We met when he took a workshop of mine in London. This was a huge part of our relationship.
So somehow unpacking the books, just two boxes, brought all this back and I cried and cried, wondering how something that had been so magical for a long time could turn so...what is the word? I don't know. But to the point where we have separated and will most likely end our marriage. That just makes me so incredibly sad.
I have put the duvets on my bed and wonder about my sanity, because the London smell is still there, but I can't stand one more night of sleeping with something that is not 100% cotton. I know that sounds snobby but my skin is dry...OK, either that or I'm insane. I don't know.
I did talk with good friends, one of whom Nicole listened lovingly and then distracted me by making me talk about my acting class at Hunter (she had some good ideas) and told me her good news about her impended NYTimes by-line...check out the Neediest Cases story tomorrow - it should be hers! Congratulations, Nicole! She has worked so incredibly fucking hard for this and I don't know someone who deserves it more. And on the off-chance someone from NYT is reading this: promote her from clerk to reporter you fools.
It's late now and especially because I barely slept last night, I'm off to bed now. For the record, I still have 30+ boxes as yet unopened. This may seem like a bad thing but for this overachieving, workaholic this is victory. I stopped, ate take out food and watched silly television. This for me was the right thing to do.
Tomorrow is another day and hopefully some more boxes will be unpacked. The sadness will continue, but hopefully some happiness, too. All of my life's possessions are in one room now. A strange thing to say at age 48, but there you go. My friend Julie said: when you return to the apartment, bless it all. It's all part of you, the mess, the stuff, everything. Bless it. That made me cry even more and then I did what she said.
Ugo the cat has been particularly loving today, which is sweet. He also gets a little antsy when I don't play with him so did that just now before writing.
I am all in now...and home. The dream is over...(in the John Lennon lyrics meaning of that phrase...as in: the illusions are gone...or that dream is over...) I am very sad. It doesn't matter if it's the right thing to do, it sucks.
But as someone said at my writer's meeting yesterday: So, I woke up today, like usual, suicidally depressed...and then it was time for lunch.
Here's to making it to lunch...and speaking of which RIP Christopher Hitchens. Another person taken too early for reasons I think I understand only too well...though the presenting issue was cancer. God bless. Even though he'd hate that - the God part - so never mind - secular blessings...whatever...
But for those of us who are alive: let's try to make it to lunch...
I then 'supervise' the arrival of 53 items, mostly boxes and watch my studio apartment transform from living space to storage facility. The guys leave and I give them a tip. It's New York, you have to tip. They seem charmingly surprised, but in a mannered 'we have to pretend to be surprised' way - but also seem grateful, too. This paid off when the guy returned with two boxes we had both forgotten.
Then I started pulling out clothes and such, thinking that would be the easy part. That was the dumb part, because the London smell came out of the boxes with the clothes and linens. Then I could not figure out what to do. I managed to leave the apartment only twice, and of course ran out of cell phone minutes. As the day wore on and I tried to find places for stuff, I cried more and more.
For some reason, even though I had shelves at the ready, I could not open the book boxes. I did after talking to a friend who asked me what I could do to help myself, as by that time I was freaking out, crying and not knowing what to do next. I said I wanted to unpack two boxes of books so I could see the TV and zone out. She said that sounded like a good idea, so I did that, then went for a walk and talked to my good friend Julie and proceeded to sob while walking and talking in Inwood Park at night. (Don't worry I was on well lit paths)...I realized that books were so potent because when things were good with my husband, we shared ideas and our work and that was very important. We met when he took a workshop of mine in London. This was a huge part of our relationship.
So somehow unpacking the books, just two boxes, brought all this back and I cried and cried, wondering how something that had been so magical for a long time could turn so...what is the word? I don't know. But to the point where we have separated and will most likely end our marriage. That just makes me so incredibly sad.
I have put the duvets on my bed and wonder about my sanity, because the London smell is still there, but I can't stand one more night of sleeping with something that is not 100% cotton. I know that sounds snobby but my skin is dry...OK, either that or I'm insane. I don't know.
I did talk with good friends, one of whom Nicole listened lovingly and then distracted me by making me talk about my acting class at Hunter (she had some good ideas) and told me her good news about her impended NYTimes by-line...check out the Neediest Cases story tomorrow - it should be hers! Congratulations, Nicole! She has worked so incredibly fucking hard for this and I don't know someone who deserves it more. And on the off-chance someone from NYT is reading this: promote her from clerk to reporter you fools.
It's late now and especially because I barely slept last night, I'm off to bed now. For the record, I still have 30+ boxes as yet unopened. This may seem like a bad thing but for this overachieving, workaholic this is victory. I stopped, ate take out food and watched silly television. This for me was the right thing to do.
Tomorrow is another day and hopefully some more boxes will be unpacked. The sadness will continue, but hopefully some happiness, too. All of my life's possessions are in one room now. A strange thing to say at age 48, but there you go. My friend Julie said: when you return to the apartment, bless it all. It's all part of you, the mess, the stuff, everything. Bless it. That made me cry even more and then I did what she said.
Ugo the cat has been particularly loving today, which is sweet. He also gets a little antsy when I don't play with him so did that just now before writing.
I am all in now...and home. The dream is over...(in the John Lennon lyrics meaning of that phrase...as in: the illusions are gone...or that dream is over...) I am very sad. It doesn't matter if it's the right thing to do, it sucks.
But as someone said at my writer's meeting yesterday: So, I woke up today, like usual, suicidally depressed...and then it was time for lunch.
Here's to making it to lunch...and speaking of which RIP Christopher Hitchens. Another person taken too early for reasons I think I understand only too well...though the presenting issue was cancer. God bless. Even though he'd hate that - the God part - so never mind - secular blessings...whatever...
But for those of us who are alive: let's try to make it to lunch...
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