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:

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!)

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.

*appearing courtesy AEA

Attempting to shift gears

Woke up anxious today about piddly details and realized that this is another way I avoid my real feelings. This is the second anniversary of my father's death and this year decided to allow a day for this and not to railroad my feelings about it.  But I'm also beginning to wonder about that decision - namely, am I becoming as I have alluded to in other posts a professional griever.

I don't know is the answer to that question.  I do have a fairly good sense, especially after meditating this morning, that I have to be careful not to hold onto all this sorrow in the way the old joke goes: a guy comes up to another guy with an arrow in his back and asks if he wants help pulling it out.  And the guy with the arrow lodged in his back says "NO, don't touch it, it's my arrow."  I think there may be some of that in me...the arrow guy I mean.  Which is, well, embarrassing...but perhaps true.

I don't mean by saying this that grief has no role or I don't want to allow this day to unfold as it needs to, but once again I find myself facing the tricky issue of what is allowing in grief and what is holding onto it.

But the most important thing of all, and the hardest thing for me, is simply to be gentle with myself.  I find that close to impossible at certain times and yet I know if I'm constantly riding herd on my emotions, thoughts, actions, etc., no good will come of it.

Perhaps this is the gear shift that is most necessary and the one I need to pray for the most, because God/dess knows I can't do it myself.  I want to surrender my life completely to this sense I have a higher power or God or Whathaveyou, but there is this freaked out little child in me who won't let it happen.  I realize her idea of any power greater is ancient info from growing up with abusive/neglectful caretakers (parents, grandparents, babysitters, etc...) and that the only way I can allow myself to surrender is if I bring my inner adult with me because this little girl doesn't trust anyone and frankly for good reason.  But then again it's old information.

As I wrote about earlier, I now teach a class on interpersonal communications, and what I just described above would be considered in sociological terms: cognitive conservatism wherein the self-concept will not budge even when new information is at hand.  It's called acting on obsolete information.  Yah.  (I have inexplicably started typing in a Canadian accent...)

So my prayer these days is that I can let go of this obsolete information and allow myself the gift of trusting in the higher power/s that have in the past 25 years or so taken care of me, guided me through life I would probably not even be alive to experience otherwise.

I should add here though that the miscarriage I had the day after my marriage, and subsequent inability to conceive is something I have still not reconciled with any idea I have of a God/Higher Power.  That seemed particularly cruel and unnecessary and is what brought me eventually pouring over the Job story (that combined with other losses, etc.).  The fact is, as of now, I don't understand it - still - 4 1/2 years later.  Other than: it happened.  It reminds me of a great line Mary Karr quotes in (her astonishing book) Lit, via Emile Zola: "The road to Lourdes is littered with crutches, but not one wooden leg."

So, wooden leg and all, my day will include meeting with other folks who've been through a lot with less than perfect home lives, then meeting another friend for manicure/pedicure and dinner.  She like me has had a rough time recently and in the past, so am looking forward to the ease these kind of experiences can bring - not having to feel ashamed of my pain or my past.  Knowing I don't have to explain it either.  What a relief.  Speaking of which - again - a shout out to my friends who have helped me through so much, both close friends and friends of friends who I know through meetings.

My shoulders are hunched up in a way which signals a need to defend myself and not surrender, my body too acting off of obsolete information.  A prayer then too that I find a way to teach my physical self that it's safe in this world now, that I don't have to be on the lookout continually for predators and that not everyone and everything is a potential threat.  You wouldn't know that was my stance if you met me. I'm good at faking openness.  But look carefully at my shoulders and neck and there you will see the reality.  The physical self in the 'don't hit me/don't see me' tensed up posture.  OK, the openness is not all fake but nor is it total, not by a mile.

So, I probably should go back to yoga...I need a gently disciplining force to bring me back to class (which is where I planned to be right now but instead, as usual, find myself writing)...still, I think/pray/hope I'm getting closer to the light.  I feel like I've paid my dues in the dark spaces and perhaps now it's simply up to me to make the move out of that musty room - or at least have the willingness to pray for the help to do so.  At least I hope so.

Speaking of which I need to wrap this up so I can take a walk in the sunshine.  I've managed to miss daylight for the past two days because of staying up late, getting up late and working through to dark.  That alone can lead to depression - so I'm off - with blessings to all.

Here comes the rain again...

Yeah I know it's a line from the Eurythmics, which dates me as ancient ...

I came home, put on some music, Vivaldi - that innocuous - lay down on the rug and started crying.  I hate music right now.  Whenever I put it on, I cry, because it puts me in touch with the dreaded emotions. The second anniversary of my father's death is coming up on Saturday...quickly followed by the day B and I got together for the first time and of course now he's gone.  So, it just sucks.

At first I thought the emotional weight was more about the separation, but that's not true at all - it's more about my father.  Or both, or like who cares...it sucks.

I don't know what to do on Saturday.  I asked a friend to spend the day with me, we'll see if that's possible.  I hate asking things like that of people, but I did it - by email.  OK, not the best way but the best I could do.  I'm not on my way up to Kripalu like I'd hoped, because right now I fear it's too expensive plus I am sick to death of traveling.

Weirdly enough last night while I stared at the idiot Iowa Caucus, a whole corner of my neighborhood burned down, literally 2 blocks away - which included my local pet food store, laundromat, bank, hardware store and yoga studio.  All of it - gone in a huge blaze.  It's sad to see so many small business (aside from the bank) wiped out.  Plus on a purely selfish level disorienting - where should I bring my laundry now, buy my cat food, do yoga and find a place to get money and deposit it...of course it being NYC these questions can be answered relatively easily and will only involve walking a few more blocks here or there, but still it's just so odd.

Going to my writer's meeting tonight, the train stopped because there was 'a person on the tracks' - I don't know if that's the equivalent of the London tube 'person under a train' announcement (which was announced with disturbing regularity I should add), but right after seeing the burnt out skeleton of a corner of a city block, it wasn't the thing you want to hear.

On the bright side, I'm reading Mary Karr's Lit, which just gets better by the page.  I am both energized, inspired and somewhat envious reading it.  Envious of her ability to talk about her chaotic life so beautifully and sharply, thanks to her poet's ear, lack of self-pity and giant soulful  heart and also relevant to the dead father thing - the fact she had a meaningful relationship with her biological father - instead of having to sort through a variety pack with the original variety missing, except as a vapour trail.  Her father was a stone alcoholic so I'm not talking about hearts and flowers, but it was a real relationship and with my father that never happened.  I chased after him as a child without much luck.  He made some attempts to connect with me - sort of - when I was an adult, which I batted away, angry at that point.  Then just when we were trying to connect, he had a stroke and couldn't talk, then when he could he was aphasic and I later found was getting high throughout the whole supposed recovery process, so like that couldn't help matters.  Pot heads.  I am sorry if you are reading this and like pot, I fucking hate what it does to people over the long term.  It makes people recede, gradually, so slowly it's like trying to watch the earth turn, but just as inexorably, it does turn and the person is gone, gone, gone....Like my father, like so many people.

I know it's fashionable these days to say marijuana is so great and it's a medical thing and blah blah blah but I say bullshit.  I've seen it slowly destroy so many people, including, obviously, my father.  Alcohol is just as bad, if not arguably worse and certainly messier, but I don't hold with the idea it's healthier or innocuous.  Maybe there are people who can smoke pot the way those of you who can have a social drink do that and if so, hooray for you.  But I've seen too much damage people...believe me, I know what I'm talking about here.

And of course I'm angry about that because the sadness and the loss is just unbearable.  Un-fucking-bearable.  To have not had a father and then watch him die is just horrendous.  I'm not the first and won't be the last and I'm lucky I suppose to have had any relationship with him at all, but there are other things, too, that are even harder to talk about and perhaps won't be spoken of on this blog.  But it's not pretty, I'll leave it there and let you fill in your own blanks.

I've forgiven him, that was the gift I was given by showing up at the hospital.  I wrote about that last year and the story of that has been published in a collection, which when I receive a copy of it, will tell you where you can get it if you're interested.  But after forgiving him, all the suppressed emotions came pouring out, having been frozen as resentment in some nuclear bunker of dissociative lock-down...so when the forgiveness came, next were the tears and the rage and the nausea and the fears of certain kinds of weird things I can't bring myself to talk about yet publicly and damn it was hard...and led probably to the end of my marriage as all this came tumbling out and I went from Julia-light to Julia-full on...not exactly what B had signed up for.  That makes me very sad, too.  To think that 'all of me' is a problem or too much for someone, etc.  Another motivator that got me back to NYC.  The place where no one can be too much of anything.  Thank Christ and All of Her/His Disciples for that.

So, for better or for fucking worse, I am fully accounted for now.  And to some people that's a good thing and to some people it's a scary thing and you know what, I just don't have the time for people who are scared by me anymore.  It's just so boring and kind of sad.  I mean I'm not scary.  I may be strong sometimes, crumple sometimes, be needy sometimes, be self-sufficient other times, have a sense of humor and sometimes deploy sarcasm (shock!) and even - gasp - use big words, but like who cares?  If I was male, none of this would even be the teeny tiniest issue.  I don't know why it's taken me so many years on this planet to truly hip to the level of molecular sexism on the planet, but damn it's dull and frustrating and just kind of Exhausting to deal with - ya know?  I'm not blaming all men for this and I know women, too, who are misogynist, but damn when can we finally shitcan this bullshit?  It is so last millennium...and the one before that...and the one before....

So to end on a positive note about my father in regards to this - the little time we did spend together when I was young, he taught me chess, gave me model battleships and chemistry sets, took me to art and science museums and never, ever told me I couldn't do something because I was a girl.  The only sexism I ever encountered within my family was reverse sexism when my grandmother Jani got angry at me for dropping trigonometry because she thought I should be a physicist, since there weren't enough female physicists.

Arguably, I suppose, no one gave me 'girl' training.  And maybe that was a good thing.  Though I suppose some would argue it wouldn't have hurt to 'embrace my femininity' or whatever...not sure that would have helped much.  But looking back at clothes I wore as a young adult, especially when with my first husband, I kind of wish I hadn't dressed with the moral equivalent of sack cloth.  There are reasons for that, but it's sad to see - no celebration or awareness of my body at all...It's been such a painful journey to embrace my physical self - with steps forward and back and all around the track...

So much loss, so little joy.  I have to believe that is changing now.  I really hope so.  After the rain, generally sun...and fresher air.  No guarantee the rain doesn't return of course, but nor do I have to drown in it.  But accept it, I must.  However, it's nice to be back in a physical climate where the rain does not come all the time...

Grateful for the heat in my apartment now as it's bitterly cold outside, but so toasty inside between that and the lovely coat I bought on super-sale in Maine, I'm good.  Grateful, too, for enough money for food, clothing, rent and the love from good friends and family.  Grateful, too, to be home, where I can't be too much of anything, even if sometimes I miss the real live social safety net of UK, which believe me I do...still, for now, I'm supposed to be here.  God/dess help me.  (And no, I don't mean Rick Santorum)

Watch out for Rick Santorum

OK, like most people, I had never heard Rick Santorum give a speech until tonight celebrating his Iowa caucus win or near-win.  Now I'm scared.  I thought the Republicans were fielding a bunch of whackos.  Now there's this guy.  He does the whole working class hero grandfather freeing himself from Mussolini/God and guns thing with such a sweet-faced boy scout look - has 6 kids including one little disabled girl, the beautiful wife - the works.  Plus he can say with a straight face, believing he's right that if he cuts corporate tax, manufacturing will come back.  That he cares, really cares.  And he's believable.  I don't even agree with a thing he's saying and I believe him.  Not that he's right but that he believes he's right.  He also equated Obama's healthcare plan with Mussolini's Italy.  Seriously.  And he is a true believer, as in religious believer.  It's no pose, that's clear.  In case any of you are reading this outside of the US, trust me when I tell you that this is very important here in Camp God.

I actually have a spiritual belief system, that I sometimes even use the word God to describe, but this is different.  This is about really, really believing God's doling out the goodies in which some people are closer and further away from said God.  As I'm typing this 99% of the vote is in and Santorum is winning the Iowa Caucus by 5 votes.  As in 5 votes - which means hand written names on glorified post-its thrown into a box.  No shit.  Watch C-SPAN if you don't believe me.

Romney is speaking now and sounds like a cardboard cut-out Ken doll speaking political gobbledegook.  I honestly think after seeing what I've seen tonight that Santorum might win this thing and if he does Obama's got a problem.  Because he's the kind of guy who, to paraphrase John Lennon could smile as he killed.  Because he'd actually believe he was doing God's will.

Romney's sounding stupider by the moment, like a stand-up who's failing in front of a friendly audience.  He's quoting "Oh beautiful for spacious skies" and I wish I could explain how horrendous he sounds.

Why am I writing this?  Because I've seen this script before.  I can only hope that people will see through the slicker Santorum, the boy scout with a dagger behind him.  But, I never have too much faith in the American voting public.

So, whatever personal issues I was or could have written about have been obliterated by this spectacle of the Reagan mini-me, who ended his speech with Hard Day's Night.

Okay Occupiers...ready, aim...occupy these Republican primaries...before we drink the Kool-Aid one more time...

Strange days

I am still going to bed late and getting up late, which used to be my schedule but hasn't been for a while so feeling a bit discombobulated.  Did my writing first again today, which is good news.  However, it's the horrendous editing bit so is about as much fun as splitting rocks.  It's a short story I wrote, edited and sent out and know in my heart of hearts is too bloated so paring it down to re-send out.  I don't know why I should be doing this now, but so far that feels right.  Really want to be working on first draft of grandmother book, and will get to that but know I need to work on my editing chops...so wish me luck.

About to listen to Joan Didion on WNYC, so maybe will learn something - again - from the master.  Speaking of which, I'm reading Mary Karr's Lit now and damn that woman can write.  But it's more than that, there's soul, too and stuff I can basically understand in terms of coming to Ivy League-like places from white trash type places - along with the psychosis of having a mother who wants her to succeed and felt trapped in Texas.  I gave this book to many people over Christmas, for good reason.  Her story resonates with so many of us...too many of us, but that's OK.  At least she wrote it.  No small thing.

Didion is talking about Blue Nights, her book about her daughter's death.  She says it is not a narrative but more a meditation, a reflection.  Her brutal honesty with herself is always astonishing to hear and gives me courage.  These two magnificent women make me feel what I am attempting is possible, even if I'm not sure precisely how I will pull it off on my end.  So, thanks Mary Karr and Joan Didion, once again for showing us how it's done.

Saw two friends from college, Bennett - who is visiting from LA - and Cobina - who lives in NYC but because we both teach can't ever find time to see each other during school term.  We were all directors and now two of us write and teach/make theater and Bennett makes work and is a creative director at an e-card company.  Tonight we were at Cobina's house with her extraordinarily precocious children and lovely husband.  I see through their teenage eyes how much older we are now. But somehow it doesn't bother me, because when I meet kids like this who are so great, I feel that all is well with the world somehow and perhaps our generation at the very least is doing a pretty good job as parents.  The funny thing was reminiscing about times we spent together 25 or so years ago in front of the teens, knowing they must have been rolling their eyes internally (too polite to show it of course), though they did seem interested, too.  They adore 'uncle Ben' who is quite entertaining (and is Sister Unity Divine as a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence in LA but wears LL Bean clothes on most days...but never stops being fun and wildly-kid-friendly - that is if you have been raised to be queer-friendly, which they have...so that was nice to see, too - a new generation not freaked out by gay people - hooray!)

However, sometimes (not tonight but at other times) I will see a particularly cute small person, like at St Marks last night and just start crying, because if I had not miscarried I would have a 4 year old right now, and sometimes that just hits me full force.  I never know when this will happen.  I don't know if I'll ever be able to let that one go entirely.  I feel better around kids now than I ever did, though, and I am glad of this.  I suppose I'll just be whacky aunt/friend Julia...not to mention the teaching...but sometimes I'll be honest it makes me really sad that it doesn't look I'll ever get to be a parent.

Speaking of which, below is a full picture of Ugo the Rescue Cat (and substitute child/boyfriend - yes it is that sad).  I managed to transfer this picture from my phone to computer.  Hopefully you can see how lovely he is.

OK, so why did I title this post strange days?  Because they are strange.  My last post was picked up by Poetry Project and others, so many people looking at it.  Glad there is so much interest in Jonas Mekas, that is heartening.

The anniversary of my father's death is coming up and I find myself noting the age of many of these folks (poets, writers, artists), and so many, like Joan Didion who is 75 and Jonas Mekas who is older, are in the same age-range as my father if he had not died.  He also loved avant-garde artists and writers, so I get these emotional twinges seeing these people who are also ageing - but also have a body of recognized work...and wishing, wishing, wishing my father had stuck with his artistic work rather than frittering his talents and energies away on pot, drinking and taking self-righteous stances against this and that.  But that in the end is crazy-judgemental of me, because I was not him and his journals I have read like a litany of confusion and pain.

I think this desire is partially my own pride.  I wish I had had a father I could look up to or rely on or something.  He wasn't a bad man but he just couldn't do anything really or commit to anything or anyone, not really, and that just seems so profoundly sad.

So as this anniversary is arriving - on January 7 - I find myself still not sure what to do but don't want to do what I did last time, which was work myself silly through it.

There are lots of practical things I need to get done and find I have zero motivation for any of them so am torn between the "just get your ass in gear" voice and the "rest - you're exhausted" voice.  I also need to be working my body more, that I know.  By that I mean yoga and stuff, not horrible driven stuff.

Weirder still, my downstairs neighbour is alternating between coughing loudly in a way that indicates he has some kind of chronic condition and singing drunkenly.  When did I get cast in a Tennessee Williams play?

I think the temporary answer to the do/rest conundrum is to wrap up this post and go to sleep earlier than last night.  Ugo is resting finally having had a case of the cat-crazies, so perhaps I should take his lead...

New Year's Day at St Mark's Poetry Project Marathon Reading

I got up late today, because went to bed late last night.  Managed to work on some writing to begin the day after meditation and glad of that.

Then went to meet my friend Marietta at The Annual New Year's Day Marathon Poetry Reading at St. Mark's Church.  I didn't last the whole time but did put in 5 1/2 hours, which miraculously went by quickly.  I probably could have stayed for more but when looking at returning home really late, I decided it was best to leave when I did, especially as Marietta and her partner had already left an hour and a half earlier.

Some of what I did see and hear from people both obscure and famous was truly wonderful.  Some standouts you may not have heard of before included Peter Gizzi, Monica de la Torre, Wayne Koestenbaum, Pamela Sneed, Mark Novac, Daniel Kent, Pamela Sneed and John S. Hall who is kind of a genius (and funny).  I cannot possibly describe the poem he wrote, because if I did so, it would be a disservice and make it sound way less interesting than it was.  Many of the poems referenced Occupy Wall Street either overtly or associatively.  The crowd at St. Marks is as political as it is poetic, a kind of spiritual continuation of the Allen Ginsburg East Village legacy...

The more well-known people who read included Penny Arcade, who was spectacular and whose narrative poem included a recitation of a description of the many letters she wrote to men when she was a young woman, which included pining after the man in question (most of whom she could not remember) in which she was accepting them and their quirks and attempting to explain her own.  She ended with a story about talking to a woman in Turkey last year who was surprised that she was traveling alone as an older woman.  One line, which summarizes my own feelings right now, was "I'm not afraid to be alone as an older woman because I was afraid to be alone when I was young."  I loved that.

There was a woman destroying a large cardboard box to loud music when I arrived, a perfect introduction to the day.  I was 2 hours late, because I knew it went on for many hours, and wanted to do my own writing.  What I encountered when I walked into the church was astonishing - a very large space packed with people listening to a marathon poetry reading - a room that got more and more packed as the hours wore on.  And I mean it goes from 3pm to 2am or so.  The vibe was very friendly and relaxed and the famous mingled with the less famous with ease, which was lovely.  I joined Marietta on the carpeted step/seat things, squishing in front of and behind some folks.

This is an event I've always wanted to attend but never managed to make it there before...I think it will stay on the dance card now.

The more famous people included Jonas Mekas, the wonderful Czech avant-garde film-maker.  He read something from his 1960s journal about Peter Orlovsky, because he died this year.  I got some video of it, which I will add here.  The sound quality is not great, but it's lovely to see him, even if faintly.  He is very old, so one of the reasons I did use my phone as video camera had to do with realizing it wasn't a sure thing that I'd ever see him live again.

I also saw my current idol (again) Patti Smith.  She premiered her poetry/music with Lenny Kaye at St Marks Poetry Project in 1971, so the resonance is quite extraordinary.  Below is some video of her singing a song called Gratitude, which came after a poem I did not record properly but was in reference to Occupy Wall Street.  Lenny Kaye also played, a lovely gentle song - it makes me laugh in a good way that these folks who were rocking so hard in the 70s now play these gentle, soulful songs.  It feels like a natural progression not like a sell-out of any kind.  It's actually kinda sweet.  In the video recording the loud laugh is mine - apologies in advance for this.  It's really loud...

What I love about Patti Smith - and am reminded of it every time I see her live, is her sheer humanity on stage - it's so refreshing to see someone at ease enough with herself to admit mistakes and laugh at herself.  I'm a total sucker for that kind of presence...

Here's a bit of the poem:

And here's the song with prequel:

There were little kids all over the place, too, being allowed to run around.  No one minded, they were smiled at a lot and picked up and played with.

Oh, and I almost forgot - and how could I - there was John Giorno, now 75, reciting a poem he wrote when 70 called 'Thanks for Nothing,' which was the usual Giorno brilliance - hilarious, sad, incantation - political, poetic, queer, glorious.

So that's how I spent my New Year's Day.  Not bad.

I even did what I planned to do but thought I would chicken out on, namely, giving Patti Smith a copy of the poem I wrote for her when I was 23, along with the cut-up text of Future Worlds - Tricorn Init!, because the last time I saw here was in London at her curation of the Meltdown at Royal Festival Hall, which included a tribute to William Burroughs.

Speaking of which, the scene tonight was lovely in its respect for its elders - a lot of references to the departed, such as Ginsburg, Orlovsky, Burroughs and many others.  There were a lot of older folks in the audience and younger folks, too.  Marietta's partner told me he'd been coming for many years and that it only gets better.  Isn't that nice to hear?  That something gets Better....

Lots of predictions for 2012 (Year of the Dragon) being quite the year - lots of hopes for Occupy movements, a sense of revolution in the air, which I haven't seen in a long, long time.  Is it real?  Time will tell, but there was another amazing poet, Poez, who said he was also a lawyer who worked defending the Occupy folks who get sent to jail.  He said when he was speaking to them through bars in the middle of the night, he felt a power coming from them that he did not think was coming through via the press.  He sounded quite impressed, even awed by this.  It sounds to me like I've always imagined the Civil Rights leaders and marchers must have seemed like to those who knew them.  This is exciting.  And accords with what I am seeing - something that is sustainable and is not going away - people who don't feel it's even possible to turn back.

Another famous person who read was Suzanne Vega.  She read a startling poem/lyric about her character Luca, the abused boy that shows up in her earlier music, as an older man.  It was spare, sad and quietly brilliant, like she is.

This was just a special night.  The more I'm writing about it now, the more I wish I'd stayed until the end...ah well, next time.

On the other hand, I did have the feeling all night that we in the US do not honor our poets enough.  So many of these people have jobs unrelated to their primary work and are not as well-known as they should be.  I felt the lack of support in general, perhaps because of reading Chris Goode's blog mentioned in the last post detailing the work he is doing, and knowing it is being supported financially in a way that it would not be here.  That makes me sad.

Also alternately battling and allowing pervasive sense of loneliness today.  Then feeling really happy to be at this event and with friends.  However, I have a feeling this loneliness I just have to walk through - it feels like some kind of last frontier for me - the fear of loneliness being what I think has driven all of my codependent behavior and stupid choices.  The fact I stayed after Marietta left amazes me.  I was OK sitting alone, at least for a while.  That's why the Penny Arcade piece meant so much.

Then I made the move to the back room where the books and food was being sold so I could give the poem/writing to Patti Smith.  I stood around until there was a moment to hand it to her when she wasn't in conversation with other people.  She was quite gracious, though she also looked very tired (she is 65 and just played 3 concerts including a New Year's Eve concert, so like, that's not surprising), and said thank you.  All I could stammer was 'Thank you for being you' and then just stood there after she walked out of the room feeling both proud of my boldness and quivering a bit because that kind of exchange scares the living crap out of me.  I stared at my ever useful smart phone as if it mattered, then went to the bathroom.

That was as much courage as I could muster and I left, wishing who I knew to call about what I had done but not being sure, called no one except to leave a message on one friend's voicemail.  This made me sad but I don't think it means I have no friends, just that there are certain times (and times of night) when I'm not sure who to call.  I also go through this battle with myself about whether I should call anyone anyway and why can't I be my own witness, etc.  So instead you all get to hear about it.

Happy New Year!  May it bring us all great joy.

Happy New Year!

As my old friend Jill said today when we spoke after many years "2011 can go fuck itself" and frankly, I couldn't agree with her more and - ha - it's Over!  For her, it was a year of many deaths, for me many losses.  But also - for me - the beginning of many openings to new delights as Rumi would say....

I am back in my beloved NYC, I'm working and beginning my writing again, have teaching work I enjoy and a great cat.  I also feel lonely and a little empty tonight, but that's normal, I guess, as I am "alone" (as in single not as in without friends...)

I didn't go to the meditation day or retreat - decided I like the way I meditate and not really interested in hearing what I'm supposed to be getting out of it.  I would have gone perhaps, still, except for the weird New Year vibe was obvious on the street and the idea of meditating for 2 hours and then attempting to navigate back uptown felt somewhat daunting.

Instead after a lovely Sri Lankan dinner with my friend Christian in which we discussed the varied ways in which our spiritual paths have wended their ways throughout the years we've known each other (over 25!), I came uptown to have tea and chocolate covered berries with my new friend Tamara.  We chatted about all things from love to theater and back around again...then watched the ball drop in Times Square (on TV)...then I came home.  From when I left her apartment, the empty feeling emerged.

I'm a bit disappointed in myself that I didn't take the time I hoped I would earlier in the day to review the year in some way...but on the other hand, it's all here, in this blog...at least the second half of the year.

What I want to do is: put myself first this year - which probably sounds incredibly selfish and strange to civilians, but it's deeply important, because I'm the kind of person who has a default self-obliteration setting and have to work against that.  If I don't, everyone around me pays and someone has to clean up the mess...it's not pretty.  I've probably written this before, but as this is the New Year round up...here it is again.

I also want to give myself space to do my own creative work - in whatever form that takes - at the beginning of each day before I get into the admin of life and all the outside obligations.  I want to walk through whatever deep fears of success in terms of working on certain projects.  I know these fears are there, even if this sounds like a horrendous cliche, because parallel to the self-obliteration default setting is the self-destruct button - that is cleverly disguised these days as intellectual justification, subtle snobbery to cover abject fear and judgments of myself or others that result in my not completing large projects that take time and grunt work.

So, instead of some profound ending to this post, as I hoped to give you, I'm gonna let my good friend, amazing writer/artist/theater maker Chris Goode take us out.  He wrote some great stuff about this very blog in his amazing blog Thompson's Bank of Communicable Desire.  While it was in his last post, it's worth doing a survey of his past blogs if you're interested in cutting edge performance/music/writing and culture generally.  He writes about such a breadth of things with such depth it's kind of astonishing.  I think of him as my private Best of British - a kind of modern Victorian polymath - kind of like Trollope who wrote tons of novels and invented the postal system at the same time - except of course he writes nothing like Trollope and there's nothing nostalgic in him...but to be that broad and precise - to care about so many things, people, ideas, art forms...is just astonishing to me.

The first line of his last post is, appropriately enough "The trouble is, nothing is irrelevant" - a sentiment with which I could not agree more...and you just need to go read the blog post, because it's amazing.  If you're interested in his thoughts on this blog it's point 35 on the post. If you search for my name and/or Apocryphal Theatre on the whole blog you'll see all sorts of artistic dialogues we've had over the years.  I don't miss London, but I do miss Chris and some other amazing friends.  It reminds me that I do want to make sure not to lose touch and take any opportunities I can to visit and keep up those fruitful artistic and personal connections...

Let us all go forth and create in whatever way we do so...let's allow serenity, courage, passion and wisdom into 2012.  Love deeply, live lightly, dance freely...sing badly or well and remember: anything worth doing is worth doing badly...Do not stop because of illusions of perfection...Your life is none of your business, just show up, do the next right thing and let God/dess take care of the rest.

And finally, I pray to remember to be grateful for even the seemingly littlest thing: like a place to live, heat, food, clothes, health, friends...Saw a guy sleeping on a subway platform tonight, there are many such people - others who are probably homeless were sitting on benches, checking each other out - seeing who was in the most need.  This makes me remember all of my problems these days are luxury problems.  My prayer for 2012: remember this and be grateful every day for that luxury.

Peace out and remember: if you wear your PJ bottoms outside, you are now officially cool.