Thursday

Off of social media for a while.

Christmas Day, December 25/L Herlevi 2015

Merry Christmas!

Christmas Eve

Seattle, December 21/L Herlevi 2015

Waiting.  So much more to do, so much I haven't gotten done, and part of my head basically screaming, and part of me calm and methodical: what gets done, gets done.  I'm waiting for laundry.  I have four hours until I have to go to rehearsal for singing tonight, and after that, driving.  (Which seems fine, so far.)

I woke up in the early morning, coughing.  Decided I should take the cough medicine, but needed to take that with food, so went down to find something to eat, ran into my housemate in the dark kitchen: we scared each other.  He was making soup as I rummaged through the fridge for cheese, said something about a midnight snack, but it was almost 4 am.  Thought the medicine would leave me groggy, but I'm fine.  Looked out the window just before going back to sleep and somehow convinced myself there was snow falling, so ran downstairs and walked outside: only rain, not nearly cold enough.  Someone was waiting across the street with a dog, a car pulled over and picked her up: travel.  But no snow.  No rain so far today, either.

My boss' boss heard me coughing and suggested I go to the doctor, so I did.  Not contagious, but she gave me prescriptions to calm my lungs down.  Walking Downtown to the bus stop after, decided to check out the gingerbread houses at the Sheraton, waited for close to an hour to view six pieces based on the Episodes I-VI of Star Wars.  The mood was festive and the pieces were cool.  Went to Pacific Place to see how it was decorated, walked into hear carolers singing and then the nightly "snowfall" so I stayed to see what that was.  It's like little sudsy drops, not sure what it's made of, doesn't seem to leave any residue.  It was packed, people were happy.  It was nice, I was trying to feel more "Christmas-y."  (Now I'm listening to the Christmas-music station.)

Episode IV, Sheraton, December 21/L Herlevi 2015

Episode VI, Sheraton Hotel, December 21/L Herlevi 2015

Yesterday, mid-day, the air was cold and damp, high rain clouds, the smallest of raindrops spitting down, but not overly gloomy, a wind picking up, made me want to be in some port city in England...also makes me happy, expectant for something good.  Feel like I need to go to a beach somewhere.  I still have errands to run.

Rushing back to work, air colder, increasing gloom, two women stop me, I say that I need to get back to work, they ask if they can sing me a carol, so I stop.  Say "yes," and listen as they sing "Silent Night" for me.  A moment of shared stillness, before rushing off again.

Went to Larson's (a Scandanavian bakery) to get some bread, forgot where it was, so parked and walked, a little confused by a lack of traffic; it's always a zoo on Christmas Eve.  After wandering a few blocks, realized I must be in the wrong neighborhood, and drove to the right one.  Not as ridiculous as last year (and I kinda' like it), I grabbed a number (only 27 ahead of me) and walked over to the fish shop to get something for Christmas dinner.  By the time I walked back in, they were on my number.  A little boy was excitedly pointing out the snowman Christmas cookies to me, his nose pressed up against the glass case.  The Danish Kringle's were flying out the door.  Someone said they bake 1,000/day and can't keep the table stacked.  (I bought cardamom bread, closest thing to Finnish pulla.)

More to follow.  Time to check the laundry.

Tuesday, Move Done

Well, when one's hand is finally forced...one does what needs to get done.  And in the end, it was only a car load of stuff, but been dreading it for a while.  Recycled three boxes worth.  Dumped everything into the living room so I had to deal with it.  Enjoyed looking through all the photos, and reading old letters, and even old college papers...I was more articulate than I remember.  Also, found some old Maria Irene Fornes' scripts from theatre class, do not remember being assigned those at all.  Surprised.  Anyway, it's all upstairs now, but somehow it's more organized than before, only I can't really get into my closet at the moment.  And at one point I was trying to play the drums, so that still has to be moved here; he's bringing the kick by tomorrow, but that's the end of it.

I feel grimy.  All the boxes have been in a damp basement for eight (!) years.  Many of the photos were sticking together, but otherwise didn't seem damaged in any way.  Got a surprising amount done today; I suppose I was focused because I had to be.

I took off today, went for a short walk in the morning: cold and gloomy.  Moody.  Reminded me of my first winter in Seattle.  Was living in a house in Wallingford, it was just before Christmas.  Used to walk into the U-District and sit on the floor of the aisles in B. Dalton (I think) it was, and read Dylan Thomas poems.  I remember it being cold and gray, and I was working at Toys R Us at South Center, swing shift, so my mornings were free.  I had just dropped out of college because I couldn't pay tuition, and I owed back tuition.  (I'd somehow talked the school into letting me stay one final quarter without actually paying for it, including room and board.  I was ballsy, because I didn't know what else to do.  They gave me almost a year to pay it back.)  Don't remember if it snowed that year; just cold and gray, like now.  I only stayed here for a few months, on April Fool's Day I was offered a job up in Bellingham that had free room and board for six months, so I took it.  (My life has changed several times on April Fool's Day; generally for the better.  That's why I remember it.)

Here's an attempt to capture the moodiness of the day.  Also, the Hellebores were in bloom; about two months early.

Heron, December 15/L Herlevi 2015

Moody, December 15/L Herlevi 2015

Greenlake, December 15/L Herlevi, 2015

Early Bloom, December 15/L Herlevi, 2015

Light at the end of the tunnel

The rain is hitting the window now, and I'm sitting here coloring.  We just had our last Finnish engagement for the season tonight (concert and dinner, for which we got the compliment that it was the nicest one we'd done), so we're off until January.  Our concert on Monday got double-booked, so we rescheduled for some time in the winter.

I have a lot to get through in the next week: moving out of a friend's basement (because that finally has to happen for real, and I have no idea what I'm going to do with all of that stuff, I don't need it); two events I have to provide food for; figure out what I'm doing for Christmas and arrange for that (and see if I can actually drive a car, I haven't tried since I hurt my hip, it's the braking that's the issue); possible audition; applications for a couple of projects I want to do (but I have to decide if I want to do them, and ask people if they will help); I think most of the stress is from the moving, it probably won't be as bad as I'm making it out to be, but I don't know where I'm gonna put it all until I can find places to take it all.

Went to watch/listen to six plays (in development) last night.  They were all interesting, but the last three were particularly strong, and part of that was the directors used staging.  One of those had a little too much dialogue for me (I zoned out), but the subject matter across the board was intriguing (a vague interview, a protest, an encounter on a ferry dock, a return home, a fairy tale, a final Thanksgiving), and the actors were great (particularly in the ferry, protest, and interview excerpts; those three had more active direction than the others.  And I've decided that I like it; also, from trying to create work this past year, I think seeing it moving onstage like that helps with the reworking of the words on the page.)

I've been watching Buster Keaton clips/movies this week.  Both to see how to write a script/screenplay without dialogue, and on the flipside, to watch how to perform without the use of words.  As an actor, I prefer words, and as a clown I prefer not having words, and I'm trying to get around both those things.  I think I'm using them both as a crutch in each situation, and yet most of the stuff I've been collaborating on lately is wordless: words seem superfluous in those cases.  You just really have to know where you want to go and be clear with it.  It's good practice.

(Oh, and someone gifted me with French-language cd's, ostensibly for going to Quebec, but perhaps I'll change the dialogue in the solo piece into French for when I'm in France.  I haven't decided.  But hopefully my pronunciation will improve.)

Back to coloring.

Another rainy Saturday and now I'm hibernating

The rain is pounding on the roof again.  Dodging obligations, watching movies on YouTube.  Went to a show at On the Boards last night, "Predator Songstress" by Degenerate Art Ensemble.  As someone else pointed out, it was a performance with a narrative, I guess I'm not the only one that notices.  A dystopian fairy tale, of a totalitarian world where all words are controlled (by a group of men), and individuality (voice) is removed (mostly from women) like dust, bottled and sealed up for some future use, probably by the State.  A woman wanders collecting stories and songs, she is arrested, tried, sentenced, and silenced.  She escapes and joins a rebellion, her brother is captured by the State and sentenced to die for aiding her.  She gets her voice back in screams.  There were only six performers on stage, two dancers, and four musicians.  All the other characters and imprisonment were projected on a screen at the back of the stage and on panels.  Stories were gathered from audience members and included in song and projection after the intermission.  It was good.  I'm not sure what I have to say about it, I'm running on fumes at the moment, except that here again is the idea of "who controls the narrative?"  Who shapes the conversation?  Who ultimately decides the future course by how they frame the message, how much fear (or not) is doled out on the masses?  Who won here in the end?  She got her voice back, but did the rebellion conquer the State or was it a momentary victory in a longer battle?  The narrative ended there, so it's in our imagination to decide.

Anyway, didn't get much sleep.  Got up early to meet a friend (and another of her friends) to work on a screenplay for a short film.  Was there until almost 1 pm, by which point I was running solely on caffeine and a donut, as I hadn't eaten since 6 pm last night, and that wasn't much.  I finally left to run an errand, a gift for a baby shower (for the parents.)  It was cold.  And pouring.  Cold in the coffee shop, colder outside.  On the bus, a woman sitting slightly above me, in a side-facing seat, crunched on something just above my head.  It was slightly louder than the raindrops hitting the roof; I kept wondering if crumbs would cover my head in the end.  Never did figure out what she was eating.

At the market, hardly anyone shopped, it was close to closing.  The odd deluge from the tents poured down one after another as I walked down between the vendors.  I bought some bread and asked about whether the vendor would have any stollen next week, he explained he would be on vacation for the next three weeks.  As I started to walk away (I didn't have any cash) he stopped me and handed me a loaf (for free.)  I was trying to stuff it down my jacket to keep it dry and another vendor waved me under their tent and out of the rain.  Got soaked (and really cold feet) walking home.  I could pretty much see through my jacket.  I guess I hadn't expected it to rain so much, it wasn't raining when I left my house.  The streets near my house have turned into ponds, waves wash over the sidewalks and back onto the pavement with every passing car.  Soon ducks will be swimming there.

I tried to warm up with a shower, but the hot water made one of my feet start to burn unbearably, so that was as non-starter.  Guess it was cold.  Walked down to do laundry, dressed enough for housemates, not enough for guests, and ran into my landlord, who told me a new person was moving in.  I swear there is some trickster element in my relations with him. (I also recently sent him an inappropriate text on accident late at night, when I read it after I was appalled.  Somehow the word "physical" got into a text about a smoke detector, I have no idea how), and now I'm running into him half-dressed, although, in my defense, it is my house, and he's supposed to give fair warning.  But still, chalk it up to another clown moment.

I hope the concept for the film works.  There were a couple moments in the middle we hadn't quite worked out.

Tuesday

Taking off, November 28/L Herlevi 2015

Haven't had much to say.  Trying to imagine how my life could be different, what I'd need to change, how that would feel, what it would look like.  Overwhelming, and yet...if I look into the future, do I want things to go along the same path they are on?  No.  And the motivation is stronger at the moment, than it has been, so making attempts.  Trying to choose with my eyes open rather than closed. (Active vs. passive.)  That on top of everything that has to be done.  And it doesn't have to be everything all at once, one thing would be enough.  Trying to keep choosing out of love and not fear.  The good thing is, we get to choose over, though the more we act out of fear, the deeper the consequences we have to deal with.  There are always repercussions, even from "not" making a choice.

Finally went out and bought new shoes.  Seems superficial, I suppose, but I've needed them for a while, my feet get wet every time I step outside, if the ground is even slightly damp (and I actually had to ask myself, "Are there actually shoes that are made to not be worn outside?  Why would that be?  These are boots, presumably people wear those outside, so, why do my socks get wet through the soles?"  Curious.)  Anyway, went to DSW, and that place is overwhelming.  Narrowed it down, and then kept trying on the six or so pair trying to imagine what I'd wear them with, and if they were practical in anyway.  Must've been in there for hours, left my house just before 11 am, and caught a bus home just before 6 pm.  There was already a heavy frost on the ground.  (And there are a lot of awful covers of Wham's "Last Christmas."  Just saying.  Must've heard five.)

The Finnish Choir has six or seven gigs over the course of a week-and-a-half.  And I have an audition coming up.  Over the weekend, I'd actually thought it was tonight and was panicking, as I wasn't ready for it.  I had the day wrong.  Still not ready, but I have time.  Need to look into the Shakespeare class, too, see what the audition requirement is.

I took a five-day weekend for the holiday.  We had beautiful (but very cold, for here, anyway) weather the whole time.  I'm happy for the return of the rain, though.  It's cleared out the air.  Am enjoying breathing without feeling like I'm hacking up a lung.  Feeling exhausted from that.

Glad for that

One of the really good things that came out of my whole bus debacle experience, was that sense of apart-ness I felt.  It gave me new insight into my solo piece, and I might do a little re-write, or I might just change the arc of it in performance.  The feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider and trying to copy the behavior around you, to blend in, to hide within it.  The idea works with how it's already written.  The original meaning for me was hearing your own truth amidst the loud voices that constantly cast judgment in your head, the ones so ingrained you don't even necessarily know where they came from, that act like rock solid truths, though they are not.  Just someone else's ideas, hopes, and fears, that were never really meant to be yours, but got trapped inside you for a while.  The things you have to wrestle free and release.

Every time you think you're done with these things, there is more.  So much to let go.

I have a habit of dismantling (which at times, is remarkably painful, and irreversible.)

Wednesday

The sky is blue, mostly clear, a silvery light, yellow leaves stubbornly hanging on to the one horse chestnut, like a gown: distractingly lovely.  Just missed getting caught in the final deluge of the storm last night, ducked into a restaurant to kill time, and when I looked out the window, the sky was wringing itself out.  By the time I left, the clouds were already clearing, all washed clean, sparkling stars and a quarter of a moon shining as I trudged my way up Queen Anne.  The world is a beautiful place.

My physical therapist gave me the contact for a hip specialist.  Fingers crossed that it's a cartilage tear (in the joint); even if that requires surgery, it beats the alternatives.

Opportunities have opened up like a flood gate.  Don't even know how much they conflict, but I'm trying to making myself leap before I give it too much thought and make up excuses not to do them.  Had a conversation with a director about directing, he asked if I was going for acting as an excuse to not do the directing, but I think if I pursued directing, it would be the opposite; when I was in college I kept doing more and more tech work (it's complicated) instead of pursuing acting when that's what I loved.  And I was competent (in the back-of-house work), but maybe a little jealous, and maybe it kept me involved in the scene when I wasn't ready to perform, or maybe I was making excuses.  Trying not to do that a second time.  (Years ago, when I took an awful job to pay back my tuition, the man interviewing me said something about "not selling yourself short."  And I took the job, though it wasn't the one I really wanted, perhaps I didn't feel I would get the other (dishwashing vs. waiting, for the record); I didn't stay there long, but man, his words stick with me.)

My hope is that we can all share a world where we have the basics, enough security to pursue our dreams.  I wish harm on no one.

Back Home

Tried to make it to a show tonight, there was a pick-up point, and the show itself is in a secret location, really wanted to go.  First bus was slow, and we were late getting downtown, so missed my transfer (a seven minute window, and we didn't make the window.)  Transferred onto a different bus and asked the bus driver if he went to that stop, he said, "yes," but in the end, misunderstood where I had wanted to go, and I asked at one point if I'd missed the stop, but he thought I wanted to go to a stop on Harbor Island (apparently), at which point I looked out and said I wasn't getting off there, and asked if he went anywhere where there would be people around (it was underneath the freeway on Harbor Island.  No.)  He dropped me off in W. Seattle, where upon I ran up the block in the street to catch a bus coming back toward town, but by the time we got to the first stop, I was already too late.  I did leave with enough time to get there.

The whole thing left me feeling frazzled and slightly traumatized (can't explain that, but that's how I felt: on the bus, on the bus back downtown, waiting, and all the way home; can't explain it, like experiencing something that makes you feel separate, and you have to "fake" normal?  Don't know how to explain it.  Not pleasant.)  Maybe it was a combination of missing the show, low blood sugar, maybe hormones, I don't know.  Starting to feel normal.  See I have a call on my phone that I missed because (of course) I realized I didn't have it when I was running for the first bus, and didn't have time to go back and get it.  Crap.

Art and Water

Running my jacket through the dryer for the second time (first time I finally broke down and washed the thing, since it was already soaked through) and happily finally able to remove my socks after they got soaked through four hours ago, apparently, my boots are in no way waterproof.  And I guess I'm probably not going to make it to a show I wanted to see.  Ugh.  Been very wet out today.

Went to the Henry to do an activation, but the other two people scheduled were late, and had to run off to a class at 2 pm, so I just facilitated them doing an activation, then waited around to see if one of the staff would work with me on one later on.  (We didn't.  Most of the pieces take four people to activate, a couple take two, and one takes nine.)  But in the intervening time, had a good talk about the architecture of the building with the same man that had handed me the dart on a previous outing ("Half the Air in the Given Space"), and joined a gallery talk about drawing.  Then talked briefly with two of the exhibit/curation staff about perception.  I mentioned the play "Molly Sweeney" by Brian Friel, which had recently played in town, about a woman who went blind very early in life, and then as an adult is convinced into having a surgery to regain sight, and the consequences/repercussions of that.  One of them mentioned hearing a similar story about someone who'd been deaf and had been given an operation to hear, and had then asked to have it reversed because they couldn't deal with all the stimuli.

Last week, we did the activations at the Chapel space in the Good Shepherd Center in Wallingford.  (It used to be a home for "wayward" girls, and now is a community space, with offices, the chapel performance space, and a few apartments.)  There was a noticeable difference between the gallery opening and the chapel activations.  In the Henry, (well, there'd been alcohol, too) there was a lot of greeting and chatting going on between people, and while they might have been paying attention, they weren't focused on the activations.  (Although, when one of the pieces went from a wide distance between the activators, to just a few feet, the crowd grew in numbers, and they got closer, and quieter, even though in the latter, all you could see were the backs of the activators.)  In the Chapel space, there was almost complete silence and reverence for about half an hour; a certain sacredness in the way the activators handled the cloth and laid it out before putting it on; a stillness (mental, as well as physical) in the active time with the sculpture.  I was definitely more focused, though that was also in part that I knew what to expect.

In the panel discussion after, the artist mentioned that the activators are in a sense, their own audience, they don't need anyone else to witness the act.  He also talked about how no one knew what to do with his work in Europe back in the 60's, there wasn't a language to talk about it (which is an interesting concept in itself.)  It wasn't until he came to New York that his work was shown, and still today, he considers his contemporaries (in the type of sculpture he does) to be artists working today, and this is 50 years later.

My pen wasn't working too well at the time, so my notes are sketchy, but there was the idea that he has always drawn, and used drawings to document the activations rather than photographs.  That drawing could capture something of the inner workings of the participants in a way that photographs could not.  To catch the spirit of it.  Also, that the material/drawing are the bones of the work, but the activators are needed to be the flesh of it, to make them fully realized (though they exist in two forms: in storage, and activated.)

I want to write more about perception in relation to "Molly Sweeney," have wanted to since I saw it, but want to read it first.  So, not yet.

Go See This

The autumn colors linger into November, deepening into reds and oranges not usually seen, a nice contrast with the morning showers.  Now the sun has come out, and the gray is lifting.

On Tuesday, I saw "Mr. Burns, a post-electric play," by AnneWashburn/Michael Friedman, dir. by John Langs, at ACT.  It was $20-ticket night, the house was full.  I don't want to review it here, only to say that it's worth seeing.  It's exciting work, provocative, not as in titillation, but in that it fills my head with ideas, (and I'm trying to write about that, not where I want to be with it yet), and even if some people commented that it was hard to follow, I found it to be the type of theatre that thrills me (the whole big concept of the thing.)

The basic story is Act I, survivors of a nuclear catastrophe gather around a campfire and piece together the re-telling of the Simpson's episode called "Cape Fear," a story involving the movie "Cape Fear" as well as "Night of the Hunter."  There is a ritual also of whenever someone new comes along of naming names to see who is alive.

Act II, same characters, seven years later.  In some sorta' town or city, making "movies" of scenes in order to survive.  A nice dance/song mash-up, routine here.

Act III, seventy-five years later, a musical/re-enactment of story, as it's evolved by that point.  I'm gonna say that last one is open to interpretation as to what's going on, exactly, there might be a specific, but I don't want to know it, it's more interesting to wrestle with what exactly is happening, more fertile ground for thought and exploration.  (What happens to stories as they are passed down over time through oral traditions?  What gains and loses significance depending on the teller or the audience?  Or what drives the need to repeat the story?  What do we do with it?  How does it shape our culture or our identity?  What do we accept as unassailable "truth" over time, where did it come from?  Are we willing to seek the source or do we blindly accept the way things are assuming they were always that way?  How do societies change or advance over time?  Who controls the message?)

A fantastic cast: Anne Allgood, Christine Marie Brown, Andrew Lee Creech, Erik Gratton, Claudine Mboligikpelani Nako, Bhama Roget, Adam Standley, and Robertson Witmer.  An especially fine job of physical acting by Standley (Mr. Burns), Mboligikpelani Nako (Itchy), and Creech (Scratchy) as the heinous "bad guys" in Act III.  So good.

Pictures from Tuesday

Hit about a 3-hour window of calm weather.  It was actually sunny before I got off of work, but I couldn't leave yet.  Got a lot done, but not all.  Pulled up most of the tomatillos, and now I have to sort through a large bag's worth to decide if they are safe to consume or not (I have no idea what stage of ripeness they need to be, or that they have reached, since they basically stay the same color.)  I left when it just began to rain, as I had a large (paper) bag of stuff to put in the yard waste bin.  The rain picked up as I got off of the bus, but I made it home without the bag breaking.  I'll have to go back tomorrow, regardless of the weather.

Is it support staff appreciation week?  Two of the groups I help schedule rooms for (not my office) gave me gifts this week: a coffee cup (the kind with a lid, name is eluding me), and a gift certificate.  Also won another gift basket from a different grocery store.  This time nail polish, most of which I will probably re-gift.  It's because I enter all the time.

Here are a few pictures from Tuesday.

Heading out, October 27/L Herlevi 2015

Fog at Bainbridge, October 27/L Herlevi 2015

Into the unknown world, October 27/L Herlevi 2015

Obscure, October 27/L Herlevi 2015

Emptiness, October 27/L Herlevi 2015

Friday

Woke up to a dark, wet, and now, blustery morning.  A month's worth of rain in two days.  And I need to clean up my garden today and tomorrow.  It's my own doing of course, I was hoping things would ripen a bit more (tomatillos, for one), and I haven't had time to get back since last Saturday.

On Tuesday (the nicest day of the week), took the ferry out to Bainbridge to visit with friends, I think it's been four years (!) since I've seen any of them.  Caught the boat home as the sun was dropping low, fog lingering, water calm, and a relatively quiet ferry ride.  Gliding back toward the city, only an outline in the fog, but always visible, as was the Mountain, there was a sense of sailing into the unknown, like being at the edge of the known world: serene, yet desolate, and a pervading sense of melancholy, that took me a day to shake, even though I walked off the ferry to go have dinner with another group of friends.  Ah, maybe it's the weather, the time of year, the season of Scorpio, the silence, the sense of impending loss (real or imagined.)  Again, the idea of what am I waiting for, why am I holding my breath?

Cooked dinner for some college students on Wednesday, and by the time that was over, the melancholy had lifted.  The result of action, I think; and giving.  We made chili.  It was edible, but would've been improved by more salt, and a longer cooking time.  Also, we made way too much.

Did my first "activation" of the sculpture work last night.  I watched the second group, they did the same pieces, I think.  Watched to see how they determined when to take it off, you do everything at the same time.  Also, I found I wanted mostly to look at the people, and not at the form itself, had to train myself to look at the overall shape.  I'm signed up again on Saturday, as part of a public lecture.

There are a ton of shows I want to see, lot of friends doing work right now.  I really need to get off my butt and audition.

Cheers.

Stuff happening

Feeling more inspired, looking at classes for winter: an acting class working in verse (which I'll have to audition for), or a beginning play-writing class (which I'll have to apply for), or some other story-oriented courses.  Any of them would be useful.  I've been thinking a lot about story telling, what I like to see/hear, and I don't know if I can do it yet, but since that auditioning class year, it's been on my mind whenever I watch a show: what is the point-of-view?  What is the director/writer trying to get at?  And the projects that work best for me as an audience member, are the ones where I can engage in at that level, and I realize that's not important to everyone, but I want it.  I'd like to figure out how to do it.  (I can be all over the map, myself.)

Also, I skipped this art training (and was thankfully able to do a make-up session on Saturday) in order to attend this party at the Burke Museum on Thursday, where the drinks were strong and after having one I had conversations about poison frogs while I casually picked up mollusks and let them cruise along my hand (the snail was interested, the slug sorta' went to sleep.) Later I moved on to have a long discussion about spiders with a spider expert (those big, purplish spiders running across the floor and hanging out in the bathtub are probably male spiders looking for a mate.  The females are usually hiding somewhere.  They all spend their whole lives in your house, beneficial, as they eat other insects in the house.  Not likely to ever actually bother you.  European house spiders.)  I guess you could also have held a tarantula or a snake, but those lines were longer, so I didn't.  And opossums are remarkably soft, just as a reference, you probably don't want to be petting one in your yard.  (And whoever planned that event, that was a brilliant marketing move, both for fundraising, and for getting people into the museum; they had to turn people away.)

The art training was to be an "activator" for Franz Erhard Walther cloth sculptures.  A friend had printed out the volunteer opportunities at the Henry Art Gallery and left the paper on my desk, so I signed up, not really knowing what it meant; I thought it was helping the public directly interact with the material.  Instead, we unfold the clothes and then "put them on,"  and essentially become part of the sculpture itself.  These are all from the 1960's, I think.  The artist was there on Saturday to go over them and answer questions.  We will only be able to "activate" ones that we practiced with.  There is one where two people are essentially yoked by the material, about three feet apart and facing each other, and that one almost feels like performance art.  There is something that happens in the intimacy of the distance, much like the chair work in Meisner.  I didn't actually do it on Saturday, but I learned it, so I can do it in the future.  I want to do it, I'm curious how we will react.  All the other ones were held taut, but this one can't be because it's around your neck; someone commented that it felt like the material was alive, because it moved with the breathing.  Anyway, there's an open house on Thursday, and the show runs through March.  Not sure how often the sculptures will be activated.

That two-person one made me think about cultural differences with distance and contact.  The artist mentioned that once, when another piece where people step through, facing one another, was in a gallery in Europe, how a man from one culture just stood still the whole time, and the woman facing him, from another culture kept walking back and forth through it.  I find it all very interesting.  (Like in greeting and leave taking, do you bow, shake hands, kiss, hug?)  Anyway, I'm excited to be a part of this.

After the training there was an "art break" where a group of us experienced and discussed Pae White's "Command-Shift-4" which is downstairs.  Inspired by the supergraphics of Sea Ranch, California, it's made of yarn, paint, and numbers.  Someone commented that it was similar to the "half the air in a given space" exhibit in the filling up the space with very little, how all (except the bull head), the materials in this show could fit in a paper box, and yet they take up the entire ballroom.  I was wondering how different generations see it, for instance, spending my early childhood in the 70's, it made me think of funk, cartoons, album covers, and Detroit.  One of the curators, who must be around the same age, got the references, but didn't think of Detroit (as he is actually from there.)  But what does someone born in 2000 or 1990 think of?  I had a very strong, distinct reaction to it, I don't usually (though I cried when I stood in front of both El Greco's "The Holy Trinity" (something about the face of the angel in blue) and Picasso's "Guernika.")  Triggered memories.  (And I love the tours and the discussions that bring more depth to the experience of art.)

Also, found out about a show I was hoping to see, so will definitely try to go, and just got back into cold-reading practice again.

Been in a bit of a funk, but waking up again.

Only this

Took the day off yesterday.  Had PT in the morning, after freaking myself out all weekend about the hip issue, and wondering if it meant that I'd be unable to walk shortly; contacted my regular doctor over the phone and she just prescribed stronger anti-inflammatories...anyway, felt better after the PT, so maybe it really is just my back.  Read and watched movies, interspersed with walks, all day.  Got no gardening done (which had been my intention.)  Still, walking around the lake mid-day felt somewhat like an illicit joy, like playing hooky.  With the exception of summer vacations, I've rarely had a weekday afternoon truly free, where I didn't have to: 1) do homework; 2) be somewhere later; 3) look for a place to live; or some other task.  Weekends just don't have the same feeling, and I didn't have any free time last weekend, and no other free nights this week or next.

On Saturday morning, I'd gone to get coffee and then ended up half-way around the lake, kneeling on a dock and staring into the reflection on the water, mesmerized.  There was something about the angle of the sun, the clouds, the darkness of the water, and almost (but not quite) stillness of the surface that made me lose sense of perspective, losing sense of where the edge of the dock was in comparison to the water, and I had a sense of looking into infinity.  Ducks quacked and whistled in the glare of the sun, enough that I couldn't make out who they were.  The eastern sky above the mountains had a pinkish-orange tone, even though it was long past sunrise.  There was rain falling high in the sky, gray curtains; a wind must have been blowing, pushing the lower half of the curtain at a 90 degree angle to the upper half, making the sky look like a mirror.  I was there for longer than I'd planned.  (I was kneeling because it's the only way I could sit.)  I heard a man's voice call out behind me, "It's a nice place to meditate."  I turned and looked at him to answer.  He asked, "Who designed the lake?"  And I answered something about water retention, because an old roommate used to make fun of the lake, saying it wasn't "real" that it was only storm run-off.  (And while that's where the in-flow comes from now, it was actually carved by a glacier, and got it's name because of algal blooms.  It used to cover more area, but when they put in Hwy 99, the area around got filled, the former creek flows that fed and drained the lake got covered over, and now it is pretty stagnant.  But it is a natural formation...I looked it up after.)  We said a few other things and he left.  He looked familiar, but I can't place him; some former life, I suppose.  Anyway, I wasn't carrying a camera, which I usually do, because I hadn't planned on walking there, yet, but the coffee shop was across the street...so, no pictures.  Only in my mind.

Ran into a friend as I started walking again, he turned around and walked with me, we talked about theatre, and perception, and truth, and witnessing.  I might write more on that later, not ready yet.

And because of the walking issue, was glad that I decided to finally walk in Spain when I did, and as much as I did (almost 2,000 miles.)  And then other things I've learned this week, just made me think about what I (we) get hung up on, why we don't say "yes" when we can, the petty things that don't matter, when do we think "life will happen," when is this "tomorrow" or later?...There will never be the perfect moment to do something.  What the hell are we (I) waiting for?

Friday

Friday.

In the morning, I search your face as the sun seeks you under the overpass. And writing now, hours later, I can't recall what I'd hoped to find.

At the performance, arriving late, just as it had begun, so waiting further off on the sidewalk, while most everyone gathered in a parking lot, encircled by runners.  A beginning.  Feeling left out, ceremony.  People wearing name tags, I wondered if I should have one, too?  (And when we entered the lobby after, I did make one, though it was unnecessary.)  Instructed to move closer when the dancers/runners stopped, a story began.  New ways of thinking about the streets (what was before, and before that?  What ghosts walk alongside us?)  Wondering about the whales, was that just part of a story or are they here, waiting along the waterfront? (Someone saw whales at Deception Pass, not the southern pods, who only eat fish, these ate a mammal, perhaps a migration.)  And then we marched solemnly together through the neighborhood and into the theatre, smoke sat heavily along the floor and the performers gathered and waited on the stage.  And so it continued.  I was a witness, though I don't know what happened.

Going home after, as I got off of the first bus, a man lying on his back on the sidewalk in front of me, hands at his side, luggage three feet south of his feet.  I stopped and watched his breath, not sure if I should approach any closer. Not sure if he was alive.  He did breath, then his left hand twitched, as I continued to watch him, he rolled to his side, eventually sat up, I asked if he was all right, he nodded, I can only guess if it was in answer.  He lay back down.  A woman further down the street waved me over, asked if we should call 911, neither of us had a phone.  A bus pulled up and she told the driver, he proceeded to get off of the bus and walk over to the man, said something to him, told us he recognized the man, that he was drunk, that he would call someone.  Her bus arrived, I crossed the street to wait.  He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, unbalanced legs wide. Sat down, pulled his luggage (a blanket in one of those plastic zipper things they come in) over to him, zipper broken.  I began to read, when I looked up again, he was gone.  Just his luggage there. I worked my eyes to the corner, he was talking to another man, then stumbled into the street, traffic coming, he made it across and wandered off into the night, I prayed any angels to spare to watch him tonight.  As my bus pulled up, I heard another man say, "oh, shit" and then the sound of piss hitting the sidewalk as I got on the bus.  No inhibition.  Sirens blare in succession the whole time I wait.

Monday

Ah, who writes this dream dialogue anyway?  A friend gave me pick-up line so ridiculously stupid it woke me up...I may have to use it for something.  (And I find myself ever so slightly in love with that person today, so I guess it woulda' worked in waking life.)

Went for an urban hike yesterday, good to get out with other people.  Afterward, sat around re-reading my clown notes, and coming up with more ideas for pieces.

Anyway, all of it a spot of levity on an otherwise heavy day.  Being a parent is always, not just when you feel like it.

Random things

The closest weather gauge has the rain at almost an inch (it's now 2:22 pm), and I believe it: the side of our yard, against the house, is flooded.  A sudden increase of wind kicked up as well (and it was quite warm, though the temperature has since dropped back to the low 60's.)  We seem to be in this pattern lately of getting a month's worth of rain on one day.  I  don't mind the wind, but I hope the rain lets up a little, I have a gig shortly.

After, ended up bidding at the auction...happily lost on the mandolin, someone told me later he thought the frets were off, sounded like an easy enough fix if you knew what you were doing, but I don't.  Guess, I'll still learn the banjo, then.  Ended up with a very colorful (chaotically so), 70's style, afghan for $10 because no one else bid on it.  Always wanted one, and it's getting cold at night again.  I might pay a little more when I give them the check, also ended up with a clutch purse from the 60's or 70's, and a loaf of bread.  It was a fundraiser for the Finnish church where we rehearse.

(Apparently, it did get warmer when the back end of a hurricane passed through.  It's still breezy, but the rain has let up.)

Went to a puppet show last night, raunchier than last time I went, and stretched the definition of puppetry.  There was a workshop today, but I couldn't go because of the singing gig. I'd like to get more involved in it.   I like puppets.  (In my mind, circus/puppet/clown/mime, etc., all kinda' live in the same world.)

And in other clown news, a bunch of clowns rallied to save a block of Belltown slated to be redeveloped and succeeded in getting landmark status for one of the buildings mid-block: Well done!

Ah, this blanket makes me happy.

Saturday

Can't believe it's already October.  Feel like I just saw a friend, but it was almost a month ago.

When I passed by the Henry on Tuesday afternoon, the room was free of balloons.  I guess there were special gloves with pins in them used to pop the balloons.  It might've been kinda' fun (if exhausting) to do that.

Woke up dark. Weird dreams about empty theatres, going back to houses I never lived in.

I keep volunteering to bake things lately, not sure why, I can probably count on two hands the amount of items I've baked in the past ten years, not counting this recent run.  Made these cookies from a childhood recipe, looking at the book, it's from 1965, I think.  I'd asked my mom if I could have it last time I was home.  The dough was really wet, and I was thinking I needed to refrigerate it, but my roommate happened to walk by and comment that it wouldn't make any difference and that I should just add "more batter," which I interpreted to mean "flour."  They turned out, got them in on time.  I'd been stressing out about it (as I always do) but in the end, they only take about 10 minutes max to mix, and 12 minutes to bake...I spent more time worrying about them than it actually took to make them.  (Peanut butter, made use of the jar I got in the gift basket.)  The book itself (one of those paperback books that people send recipes into) has all sorts of cookies you never see anymore (carrot, banana, date and peanut butter, etc.); I wonder if anyone would eat them, the choices around here are basic (peanut butter, chocolate chip, oatmeal, snickerdoodle, etc.), would these be too unfamiliar?  Some of the ethnic bakeries (Scandinavian, Iranian, Greek) have more choices, but Seattle is lacking in variety.  I digress.

The folk choir sang at this heritage award concert last night, with a Finnish-American kantele player.  While waiting for the program to start I saw a flyer for a free vocal workshop today.  My housemate woke me up at 1:30 am by hollering and stomping up the stairs, and I stayed up and watched a movie after that, then the power went out.  I decided I'd go to the workshop, the power wasn't back on by the time I left.  It was all day, I just got home.  Mostly for opera singers, as it turned out, but to my mind, any performance advice is good, and I enjoyed it.  We did classic/opera improv, and since improv scares the pants off of me, I volunteered to go up in the first group: four people sat in a circle, touching each other, everyone with eyes shut, and the quartet created a song together, by one person starting and then the others coming in and adding and building on it.  My group worked only with vowels, but later on groups got words they could take apart and explore...either way, the results were haunting and beautiful.  Then there were jibberish arias, mostly those were the opera singers that did them.  Not a form of voice that gets to do improv much.  I left when they were practicing auditioning, I have to work tonight.

The movie I watched in the middle of the night was "The Devil Wears Prada."  It's not a great movie, but I like it for the relationship between Andrea and Miranda, there aren't many movies that have that intense of a relationship between women (and I love Stanley Tucci.)  My only problem with the movie, and I haven't read the book, is that I don't think Andrea falls enough for her friends to turn on her like they do.  It's not justified (for me) by what's on screen.  The way it's played, she deserves more sympathy than scorn.

Been thinking about friendships lost.  Three in particular I'm willing to fight for to get back.  One, I've started to rekindle (the one I've already mentioned.)  Another, can tell me to ef-off if they want, but I feel I need to try.  And the third is so complicated.  But recently, I came to the conclusion that perhaps there was some outside sabotage involved, not that we didn't do enough ourselves, we did, youth and insecurity.  I don't know where to start, but it's the only one my heart breaks over.  I can forgive the hurtful words, though since I heard them secondhand, I don't even know that they were ever the truth, only that at one time, I believed them to be, and so I was done with it.  I suspect at this point that they weren't fully true, I don't know why they were told as if they were, though it no longer matters.  Deep, deep down, I think there's love still buried, a friendship that mattered.  How does one begin to recover something so long lost?

Sky at night

Not a new observation, though I somehow hadn't thought it before, but one of the cool things about the lunar eclipse is that you get to see the full 28-day cycle/phases of the moon within a few hours.  I didn't manage to go out and find it until it had already been fully eclipsed and was just the smallest sliver of its lighted self, came back in the house when it was about 3/4 back to normal.

Memories of late summer, a younger self, sleeping under the stars, at times seeing the Milky Way (especially when I was little; we lived in navy housing out in the sticks, at the time, no city lights to block the sky) or at any rate, more stars than I see now.  Sometimes we'd sleep out on my friend's dad's boat, scaring the pants off of each other with stories of spaceships and aliens, but staying out.  Or in tents in backyards.  And later at camp, or group camping trips, groups of us sneaking off to sleep outside, inevitably getting caught by counselors, or park rangers (talking too loud...we also all managed to sleep on an anthill on that occasion.)  We tried sleeping on the lawn in front of the research station in Central America, but living in a cloud forest, we always got rained on.  Later, a boyfriend and I, both being poor at the time, spent our evenings walking out into the countryside to stargaze (in winter.  He always told me everything was "Scorpio," and taught me where Orion was.  So he was probably pulling my leg regarding Scorpio, but right about Orion.)  And even later, driving back to Swansea in the middle of the night with my aunt and uncle because of a broken down ferry from Ireland, and a last minute change that took us four hours north of where we'd thought we'd be, but man, what a sky, millions of stars.

There's a field nearby that makes me feel the same: awe of the beauty of the sky, and a certain deep loneliness at the distance and silence of it all, and joy at being alive to experience it.  Still love living here.

Art

Finally made it into the Martin Creed exhibit: Work No. 360: Half The Air In A Given Space, at the Henry Art Gallery.  It was the closing day.  Had meant to go on Thursday (not sure why I didn't), then on Friday, my sister was in town, so I met her for lunch, yesterday I had a headache, and earlier today I sang at a memorial service (one of the nicest services I've been to), and got home around 2 pm, gallery closes at 4, so hemmed and hawed, but finally jumped on a bus and got there after 3 pm.  There was a sign saying if you weren't in line by 3, you wouldn't get in, but I guess seeing it was the last day, and the biggest crowds they'd had (there was a good write-up in the Stranger, and students are back on campus because the UW starts this week), I heard someone come over and tell the desk that they would lock the door at 4, but keep the exhibit open until 5 pm...I got in just before 5.  I was in line from a little less than two hours.  When the line got close to the exhibit (a room 1/2 full of silver latex balloons, although, by the time I got in the attendant that opened the door joked that it was now "1/4 of the air") the smell of latex hit my nose, and the combined sound of people screaming, balloons popping, and the movement of the balloons was surprisingly loud.  The line moved slowly.  Watching from above and seeing how hard people struggled to get to the door added to my sense of trepidation (I hadn't gone sooner because I was wondering if I would panic.)

At one point there was so much popping of balloons that we joked that by the time we got in, we'd be running around and screaming in a room empty, save one balloon (that would take a bit, at its fullest, there were 37,000 balloons in the room.)

So, I did get in.  At that door, the level was low and there was a very tall man moving about, head above it all, so it seemed reasonable.  Went in, immediately came into the path of two people trying to get out, which create a tidal wave of balloons around me, and suddenly I was underneath them.  More difficult to push through than you would imagine.  For a while I could hit them up and away from me, and feel like I had air space above, but then the next moment find myself buried and having a difficult time moving through, ie, unable to push my way, trying to get my feet around the ones on the floor, but no where to push them.  I made my way back toward the door, and then a new wave of people entered, the first two running, and the next two saying they were going to the other door, so I figured I would, too.  I stayed near the wall thinking it would be easy, but halfway, I was buried and trapped (it might have actually been easier in the middle.)  It was interesting to have something so light (air, essentially) pushing a force back against me from every side, and at that point being buried about five layers down, so having trouble displacing the ones around me, as there wasn't anywhere for them to go.  Also, they vibrated, which was only expected in that I saw a single balloon out on the patio as I waited in line, and it vibrated against the ground.  That was trippy, as if they had life.  And I could hear people, but rarely saw anyone else.  Finally, a change in the light indicating a doorway, and I made my way toward it, needing a surprising amount of effort to get there, again, there was no where to push the balloons away that were between me and the door; I could hear someone (a kid, I think) to my right, fighting his way to the door, wanting out.

Overall, a strange experience.  Facing a little bit of fear, but also, experiencing something that I probably won't have the opportunity to again (although, this participatory sculpture does tour around.)

When I got out, one of the security men handed me a dart and asked me if I wanted to pop balloons.  I went at them with a vengeance.  It was satisfying.

Off to go find the moon that is super tonight.  (And the nights are suddenly chilly, high 30's/low 40's after all those nights hovering around 70 not too long ago.)

Saturday

"Worry is misuse of imagination"

Friday.
Woke up feeling emotional.  Thinking about the wreck on Aurora, all the people that helped, and all the people that were injured, and feeling for the families that have to hear the news that their loved ones died.  And then hearing the news that it was confirmed that the body found in Spain, was indeed the missing pilgrim, and my heart going out to her family, and all who knew her, and generally questioning fate, and why was that their fate?  Also, seeing a picture of the accused and feeling creepy because I'm pretty sure he's the same man that freaked me out in El Ganso last time I was there (and I sat on a bench for an hour waiting for someone else to come along so I wouldn't have to walk that stretch of road alone.)  And his actions ruin what was in general a good memory for me, one of the most significant things I've done in my life.

Saturday.
Saw "Knocking Bird" (by Emily Conbere, dir, Paul Budraitis) at West of Lenin last night.  As far as I can tell, it's about a couple who escape to the man's childhood home out in the woods, ten miles from the nearest 7-11, after a car accident leaves the woman's body wrecked.  Eventually, a man from their past (his boss/partner, her lover) comes to visit, lured on the false pretense that the woman was sending him messages for help.  Act II leaves reality altogether, not entirely sure what was going on, assuming the husband has completely snapped and we are inside his head.  I thought the writing was good, enjoyed the set, and it was my favorite role I've seen Alex Matthews in (the visitor.  And I like the way he moved the bird puppet character.)  The conversation between the couple played by Angela DiMarco and Sam Hagen was very stilted in Act I, and I enjoyed DiMarco's performance more in Act II when she "ate" the bird, and then became the bird living in birdhouse built for her as a gift by Hagen's character; Hagen played a man disturbed (and losing more touch with reality as the play continued on; spying on his wife, lying) by childhood memories at the same house, well.  I'm not sure what happened overall, but it reminded me of the Tod Browning movie "Freaks."

Woke up with a headache that has kept me from doing part of what I wanted to today (go to the Henry exhibit.)  But the sun's shining, and the air is pleasantly cool, and I guess I'll learn how to cook something new, if I'll be home for a while.  (Bought chestnuts, quinces, and tomatoes I want to roast, and I need to make a tomatillo salsa before they go bad.)

Peace.  Find joy while you can.

Not much

Not much going on lately, in a state of flux, trying to figure out what to do next.  And finally deciding to get up and deal with the state of entropy that so quickly builds up when you let everything slide.  (A result of which was giving more clothes away, and clearing out more space...oh, and cooking a lot.)  The only recipe I ended up making from the French cookbook was an apple cake; I made it 2x, and adjusted it, the second time using plums and apples, and changing some of the other proportions.  I am curious how it is supposed to turn out, though it was fine as made (substituted a duck egg for two chicken eggs, cloudberry liqueur instead of rum, increased the flour by a 1/4 cup, and used a slightly larger pan...so it turned out flatter than it probably should.  If I make it again, I'll reduce the sugar, it's too sweet.  It's 3/4 C sugar and 1/2 C of butter.)  I made them both for work parties, though at the second event, there were very few people, so I offered slices to random people in the park.

Thinking about how my life does (or doesn't) reflect what I say my priorities are, been thinking about this all summer...or am I living/acting what I say I believe or is it all lip service?  Just seems to be coming up a lot recently, both in things I've been reading and in conversations.  And if these don't match to a greater extent, it's no wonder I feel out of sorts.

Finally going to a physical therapist for this hip/leg thing.  Doesn't seem to have gotten better on it's own, and four months is long enough.

Happy Autumn.

Strange weekend

The residue comes out in my thoughts and my skin.  As if it all had meaning.  Plot twists of distant worlds colliding.  Everything thrown off axis.  A voice I can't distinguish telling me, "I'm still here."  Since Thursday, nothing went as planned, and everything somewhat strange.  Not bad, but altered.

Doors opening, seeing into someone else's universe, different than mine.  Radical generosity.  Fierce love. Running all over town.  On a long bus ride home, (from an early show...an unexpected wedding reception, and rock-aroke jam, a gutsy one at that) a man ranting, realizing it was only to himself, the predominant mood of the entire bus was one of compassion, and I realized also that in my normal daily routes, that wouldn't be the case, we need too much control, more calculated in what we give, we want to know the outcome first.  Today, walking home from a memorial service (for someone who embodied openness and love to me, someone who recognized people mattered more than things, and practiced that) a man beckoned me into his shop, offering food.  We talked about tennis, he fed me garbanzo beans, translated poetry to me.  When I got up to leave he said, "What we have is meant to share. Ten percent won't hurt you any to give up, if you have, you share what you have."  Seeing what love looks like. Radical generosity.  Love.  And it's not that it's not always there, it's that if you just swim in the sea without noticing the details, you mostly see greed and fear, but if you look closer, at an individual level, the opposite is more true.

Holding all the things that matter: Not for sale.

Stuff for the future

Well, I don't think I'm actually doing the show at this point, which is fine, I'm gonna finish the piece anyway, good to have done.  Don't know if I will use it in the future.  (But as of now, haven't rehearsed it or tech'd it, so not completely comfortable with performing it on the fly.)

I've also decided that in addition to writing "morning pages" daily, and free writes, I'm going to start writing stories, or at least story ideas, keep them in one place.  This forcing to be creative under pressure is torturous, mentally...creatively.  Everything just shuts down.  Also, I need to find some sorta artistic collaboration, doesn't even matter what the other disciplines are at this point, and probably better for me if it's not all theatre-related.  I need the clarity of thought that comes from airing out ideas and starting points with other people, where that benefits them as well as myself. (Like feedback/critique in an art class, how I somehow could produce a new design project every-two nights then.) Working with my former classmates helped tremendously, as did using studio space.  I knew that before, but I should've made use of both of them sooner rather than force myself to come up with a draft "worthy" of that.  And having a set space for that would dispel the fear I have of feeling like I'm wasting your time by asking.  All good to know for the future.

Do I want to be a writer?  Not sure.  But I write, and I might as well get better at it.

Also, gonna find an audition coach.  Need to get out there before I lose all confidence.  (And all the singing commitments start up again this week.)

Already September

I feel like when we get to the other side of the rainy weather, we will be in another season: from a relentless heat wave (3 months?) to a normal autumn.  I can see a storm passing to the north, the dark clouds, curtains of rain falling, currently sunny directly overhead.  A wind has kicked up, what little is making it through the partially opened window, is pleasant; got a bit stuffy in the attic during the day.

I only ended up meeting with two people about the piece, consecutively, and in the end, I read the poem to each of them, and we talked about it.  Really helpful, needed to get out of my own head.  I think creativity is hard to do in a vacuum, at least for me, I need to bounce things off of people, hear someone else's take on it.  It went in another direction, and actually both of them were thinking in the same vein; they are both storytellers.  I have a lot of work to do.  Feeling sorta' flat emotionally, but I've worked through that before, so I have some hope I will again.  (And I don't actually know if I am even doing the show at this point.  It's taken me so long to get a handle on this.)

The second person made the observation that I shouldn't worry about trying to have people "get it" or to try to compromise what I say.  You're never going to reach everyone, and as I've mentioned before, something about the sea we're all swimming in has made me censor myself, a lot.  We also talked about getting to original gut-level reactions because the passion is found there, i.e., I genuinely care about that, and should use it.

Took a break from thinking about it for the evening, and promptly fell asleep.

Had a lot of encounters with birds today, must have bird-friendly energy.  The most amusing of the lot was when I went to the urban-farm store on my way back to work, there were a bunch of adolescent chickens in a coop.  While looking at the ones in the lower level, I kept getting hit with feed or sawdust from the upper level, I had to tip-toe to look in and the chicks were also stretching their necks up to look back out at me...a mutual curiosity.  Then walking to the bus stop, I noticed a broken branch hanging, from a distance I thought I might be able to reach it and pull it down.  Turned out I could not, but there were branches with hook-like ends and so I grabbed one and tried to catch the branch to get it to drop.  A very tall man came over and pulled it down for me.  It was sorta funny.  I didn't need to be doing it, but I thought it might drop on someone's head later on.  Sorta made me feel like a crow or something.

I have studio time on Friday, should get some sorta new draft done by then.

Deadlines should be good for something

...but I still don't like anything I've written.

Missed the bus coming home from a party tonight, went to the grocery store, half hoping to run into friends that live in the area, but ended up buying chili and a baguette and going out to catch a different bus, and then walking the rest of the way home.  The wind blowing, somehow sounding soft tonight.  Broken branches and leaves scatter the ground.  I think the trees might like the wind, an opportunity to shake off dead weight.  As one stuck in the same place, the same aspect, how else could you get this done?

This writing thing has gotten to the point that I wake up, shoot straight up in bed, and scream (or a more silent version of that...I have housemates.)

I must've fallen back asleep this morning.  And this is my amusing anecdote of the day.  I dreamt a bunch of my friends were in a show, and I was wondering why I hadn't heard about the audition.  (In waking life, I have seen three of my friends' shows over the past week.)  The stage manager eventually walked up to me, took my right arm by the wrist and the elbow, looked me in the face, and said, "This is your lucky day."  Then I woke up.  Half-hoping my arm would feel better (not really), or that I'd have a story idea (nope.)  And actually, I don't even know what it meant in the context of the dream, since I woke up at that point.  Anyway...I went to a party later in the afternoon, for real.  I know that the person in the dream and the person whose party it was know each other, not sure how well; I've only met dream person a few times, at events that we both worked at.  Out of the whole city, and a decent-sized theatre scene, he was one of ten people at the party when I got there.  Thought about mentioning it, but didn't:  1) Wasn't sure he'd remember me; 2) it's an odd thing to tell someone.  I did tell the host after he'd left.  The host thought the other one probably would've found it amusing.  Still don't know why it's my "lucky day."

Wrote a story this morning that has nothing to do with this other thing (and went for a walk later to look at the aftermath of the wind.)  Someone had posted a video and it reminded me of the encounter I'd had with a bull, on my first trip to Spain.  Anyway, I wrote a story about that.  I remember I'd written home about it at the time, and my mom wrote back saying it was probably because of my red bandana.  (My parents said the same thing about me when I used to get singled out for extra searches in airports; it happened a lot.  On one trip, both my aunt and my sister-in-law were also searched, and they don't look remotely anarchistic.  So, I don't think it's the bandana.)  I may have been wearing orange pants on the occasion with the bull, maybe that upset him.  He basically wouldn't let me pass by, we're talking head down and braying.  Eventually, after about ten minutes of our standoff, this Spanish man came along and I asked if I could walk with him explaining about the bull, he agreed.  And of course when we got near the bull it just stood there grazing as if nothing had happened at all, seemingly pleased with his mark on my journey, making me look as if I was overreacting, but at least I finally got past. (It reminded me of a Gary Larson cartoon.)

Well, I've got a couple of hours to try to write.

Stormy

The storm turned out to be more of a wind event than rain.  Currently under a bubble of blue sky, and managed to get around the lake this morning, rain threatening, but not manifesting, until I'd already gotten back in the front door, and even then, not heavy nor lasting long.  But it is quite windy.  Picked up after I'd started walking, tree debris airborne, everywhere.  Part of a big-leaf maple broke off the trunk and fell across at least one lane of Aurora.  I neither saw nor heard it fall, but I think it had been recent as someone was up on the road trying to call it in, and someone else had gone up to direct the traffic around it.  Later, I heard a crack and saw another large (dead) part of a tree fall on a hillside above some parked cars.  Overall, lots of willow and maple branches falling.  The first wind in a long while, so lots of leaves and branches the trees are ready to let go of, especially with the drought on top of everything else.  And it's quite warm, which is also unusual for a windstorm here.

We've had a few power surges, nothing major.  I want to go to the store (and I need to go pay for the food I got yesterday, the machines were malfunctioning, so they said to come back and pay), but every time I think to go, I hear something crack outside.  

I did some writing, but still waiting to hit some vein of inspiration.  Still just slogging through it.  I need to have something soon, today if possible.  I've asked some of my former classmates if they would meet with me to listen and offer feedback, and some said, "yes," so I need to have something to present.  (Gave myself a real deadline.)

I hate asking for things, I tend to avoid it.  Have had to ask major favors lately (still have a huge one that I haven't asked yet).  It's good practice for me to do it, we all need something at some point, it's just easier to give than to receive, or to admit I need anything.

Peace.

Lucky

I have a lot of generous people in my life.  My heart is bursting.

Just, write

The remedy for writer's block is to write, and the block to writing is perfectionism.  That which rears it's ugly head once (well, most of the time) again.  The idea that whatever I present has to be flawless because there is an audience and they have paid money to be there...or even just because there is actually an audience.  But it's also a process, a place to try out material and see what sticks.  And if I don't start writing I won't get there at all, which is all well and good to say, but it's just talk until I put it down on paper.  Sigh.  Have now gone completely sideways with this.  An idea I jotted down years ago, before I even had email.  (If it stays in the same vein, that'll make sense.)

I see there's a workshop in self-producing this fall, maybe I can get this written in time to apply for that, though I'm giving myself a deadline of tomorrow.  I need to have other eyes and ears on it, someone outside of my own head.  And I need something written, even a very rough draft, before I ask people to give feedback.

Went for a walk the other night, around the lake, hoping to see part of the sunset. Somehow missed that, and it was getting dark.  Walked as far as the shell house.  During daylight, each light is surrounded by what looks like old cobwebs.  When the lights switch on at dusk, you can see these are great colonies of spiders.  Lots and lots of spiders, of every size.  Running up and down the highways of silk, up and down the walls and roll-up doors.  A whole other city that hides during the day, and takes over at night.  Thousands of spiders.  Another woman stopped to look and commented that they were smart, building the webs around the lights in such a way to funnel insects into them.  A clever hunting strategy.  It's fascinating to see, and yet I still involuntarily shuddered when I got too close, overcome with the heebie-jeebies at the thought of accidentally walking into part of the web that I couldn't see, and having it stick to me, being covered suddenly in spiders.  It still makes me shudder.

Sunday morning

Sat outside on the steps, the coolness of the morning lingering, listening to the sound of church bells calling someone to worship.  Sometimes a voice calls out from up the street, sometimes a car goes by, once a crow cawed, but otherwise, quiet.  The air has been hazy since yesterday morning, the winds shifting this way, carrying the smoke from all of the fires burning.  All the childhood places, burning.  Burning out of control.

Got up early-ish to finally roast the tomatoes (I picked half of them before we had the rain storm), threw those in the oven, and started going through the produce drawers.  Found some onions that needed salvaging, peeled off the outer layer, and sliced the sweet one thinly and tossed onto the pan with the tomatoes, then a few cloves of garlic and salt for good measure.  In the end it didn't amount to much, and since it was paste-like, I ended up adding it all to the soup instead of freezing it.  I peeled the skin off after roasting, all my tomatoes have very thick skin this year, not sure if it's the weather or the variety.

This is the soup, so I can find it again (and I never really measure anything.)

Two ears of corn, kernels cut off and reserved, cobs broken in half and tossed in a pot with enough water to cover by maybe a half inch.  Bay leaf and a few slices of dried mushroom I had sitting around; poured the tomato liquid from the roasting pan into it as well.  Covered and let simmer.  Chopped what remained of the small, red onion fine, chopped half of a padrón pepper fine, small celery rib (fine), and a clove of garlic.  Browned the onion and garlic in about a Tbsp of butter and a little olive oil, added the remainder of vegetables once the onion had softened.  Salvaged a zucchini (by salvage I mean other things had started to melt in the produce bags) by rinsing and then peeling for good measure.  Chopped about the same size as the corn kernels, threw that in the pan.  Added a pinch of saffron, salt, pepper, and a bit of pimentón  When it had cooked for about 10 minutes, decided I might as well add the tomato, onions, garlic from the oven.  Stirred and let it dry out a little.  Removed the bay leaf, cobs, and mushroom bits from the broth, added the vegetables.  Simmered to reduce it some.  Tasted pretty good at that point.  Added probably 1/4 lb of the salmon (the thick, west coast type of smoked salmon) and probably 2 Tbsp of fresh dill.  Let simmer.  Added cream at the last minute because I had some I needed to use.  Turned out pretty good.

If I were to make it again, I'd add something like fennel (fronds, bulb, seeds, pernod?) to it, and omit the cream.  But it's fine.  Now only another 1/2 lb to use up.  When I went to the library to pick up a hold yesterday, there was this tome of a French cookbook on the counter, so I checked that out as well, and lugged it home.  The recipes seemed doable, not overly complicated.  Might make rillettes with some of the salmon (like a fancier version of tuna salad, omitting the mayo.)  I was told I might have two weeks before it went bad, but I'd like to use it up sooner, generally don't do well with old food.

Still need to write, but at least I did something with my morning, can not say that much lately.  Need to go meet someone from the buy-nothing group to loan her a Spanish phrase book for her Camino.

And write.

and feeling like I'm losing my mind

Really need to get a handle on: health, finances, getting rid of stuff, and writing this thing (at least sending in a draft.)  All of these are keeping me up at night.  Also, I probably need to take a week off or so: I need a vacation, I'm not really functioning at this point.

Thursday.  The drone of leaf blowers, street cleaners, and lawnmowers provide the morning soundtrack. At work it's been so quiet and at a constant temperature, that I'm always somewhat taken by surprise when I walk outside and it's hot and noisy.  It's like coming out of a cocoon. Woke up late, after 7 am when I looked at the clock, jumped and stumbled, not quite fully awake.  Another round of explosive fireworks last night, after 11 pm, not as many or as random as the previous night, but enough to make my heart jump as I was falling asleep.  And a beetle had gotten in and was whizzing past my face, smacking into things, and then occasionally landing on me, causing me to yelp because I hadn't figured out what it was yet.  The smells through the open window more of gasoline than grass, but the coolness is welcome as is the an unexpected mist, reminding me of the days before we had to go back to school when I was a kid: the heat of the summer, succumbing to drizzle and gray on the last days, until the sun returned when we had to be back in class.  Cool mornings, hot, buzzy afternoons.  Dread and excitement rolled into one, wondering what the year would bring, would you fit in anywhere?  From all of this, and from not eating enough, I've been really tired.

Dreamt about a drone spraying pesticides everywhere.  Dreamt about spiders and webs everywhere, and trying to get past them.

Other than that, been a week of random gifts.  Last Saturday, while walking around the lake, I passed through some sorta' fair and got a free peach, threw my name in for a drawing, then went on my way and forgot about it.  On Monday, I received notice that I had won a gift basket.  Very random assortment of items: pound of Middle Fork Coffee, two Theo chocolate bars, a bottle of hot sauce, a bag of pumpkin seeds, two bags of snack mix, an energy bar, a jar of peanut butter, spice mix for vegetables, and a citronella candle.  It came in something called a "blessing basket," probably my favorite part of it.  Then on Wednesday, I went to this volunteer party for the Ballard Seafood Fest (which I served beer at) and the final invite said something about a "gift."  I was going for the food, and figured the gift would be a t-shirt or something.  Nope: gift was a full, smoked salmon.  Remarkably generous.  Need to figure out what to do with it, need to use it soon as it had thawed out by the time I got home.  Bagged it up, and gave some to my roommate.  (I would've anyway, but she gave me a washcloth because mine has disappeared.  Not sure why.)  Will make corn/salmon chowder from at least some, but there's plenty left after that.

Then today, I went to this free workshop on not wasting food (so preserving, but also how to use things you might have an abundance off, as well as things like carrot tops, radish tops, chard stems, etc.)  The main presenter made a berry pie, and then we made "meat" balls out of greens (which were really good), pickled apples, pickled hot peppers, and talked about other preservation methods.  When we filled out the evals at the end, we each also got the choice of a book (I took one on drying food, since that's what I'm most likely to do.  Canning still makes me nervous, so I'd want to take a class, and the other book was recipes for freezing.  I've only ever made refrigerator pickles before, they were good.  I'm a fairly adventurous eater, and cooker, but preserving makes me nervous because if you do it wrong, you can get really sick.)  We also got a food-related item: canning jars, canning tools, a mandoline, or molds for freezing things.  I took the jars, I've been needing some.  Had earlier been given a mandoline as a door prize, I've been wanting one for some reason, though I can't remember why at the moment.

All of my tomatoes seem to have ripened at once; someone recommended roasting them in the oven until slightly charred, then cooling, and freezing them.  Good idea.  Someone else said that she roasted them in the oven for 6 hours with a sweet onion and hot peppers (at 200 F), then blended it into a sauce.  Might try that as well.

And then a sweet moment of my week was yesterday, I was going out back to put something in the compost, and I must have made a yelping sound when I encountered a spiderweb/spider across the walkway.  A different housemate was out smoking and asked why.  I told him it was a spider, and went to find a stick or something to move the web out of the way.  He walked over and moved it for me.  I didn't need him to do it, but it was a really nice gesture.

Oh, and an even kinder offering was my friend that took the time to shoot head shots for me last Saturday because I had an audition I wanted to do.  I liked the way a lot of them turned out.

Feeling liberated

Well, count that one as a win for nerves.  Monologue barely in my head when I walked into the audition, and I was so shaky.  Had to restart.  Also, situation not particularly helped by the fact that I decided to go with a new monologue this morning.  Been working on it all day, but not really enough time to do it justice.  Still have been having a hard time finding material in my age range (monologue-wise, been finding plays/scenes, but the women characters in them don't have any long bits of text, so you have to piece them together.)  The one I've worked on the most, also pieced together from dialogue, is from the play I just auditioned for, so didn't want to use it; it could go either way, I suppose, but prefer not to risk it.  At any rate, I can work on it more and use it in the future.  I do like it.  (Well, both of them.)

Took the day off to get ready, get the head shot printed, the resume updated (which of course, after I'd already gotten back home, I realized the formatting had moved, which looked bad.  But didn't have time to fix it.)  Currently feel rather free (the stress of the audition being over), but have to get back to the writing now.  Don't know if it's too late to turn it in, but good practice, nonetheless.  Wish I'd taken off the rest of the week, it's slow at work, and I need to use up vacation time, plus it's a really nice time of year to be on vacation.

I should eat.

Sunday, maybe onto something

Waiting to hear back from someone regarding a "buy nothing" group offering.  Finally got around to posting some items yesterday.  No one took me up on the books, but the other two items were claimed.  Came across more leaky batteries in a box...I really need to keep up on these things.  Guess I'll bag the box and contents and get rid of them.

Itching to get to the park, to be outside.  It's my perfect (late summer) day.  Bright sunny, some clouds (not many), slight breeze, temperature somewhere in the 70's, so a break from all the 90's.  People relaxed.  The smell of cut grass (from the one yard that still has some.)

After talking to my housemate regarding the thing I'm trying to write, went ahead and went all out in a diatribe, she commented I might as well go there and then I can edit it later (or at least get it out of my system.)  Tried to figure out who exactly it is I think I'm writing for that I need to censor myself.  Why so much self-censorship?  I don't want to use a diatribe, but why am I not letting myself say it, even under the conditions where no one else will see it?  Timidity.  And Fear.  Anyway, by the time I got around to writing, it'd lost steam.  With the second free-write I hit upon a useful line of thought.  I might run with that on a third, or go with something else; I have it, so I can always come back to it.  Taking a short break...came home to check email, and to work on the monologue.  Fingers crossed that I will have a head shot in time, a friend shot some of me yesterday, but I haven't seen them yet.  Trying to make myself ask for things.  Trying to risk "no."

Had a surprising change of heart about someone yesterday.  Out of the blue.  We'd had a falling out several years ago.  Saw that person today, probably could've talked to them if I'd had the guts...certainly wanted to, but the intimidation factor is the stronger of the two at the moment.  I think they are open, I was the one pushing back.  (I'd felt like I'd been thrown under the bus on a project we worked on, and I was kinda' done with it.  Wasn't sure I could trust them anymore.  The change of heart in part, is that I decided I will try.)

Back to the work.

Finally, real rain falls

Sometime around 4 am, the rain began to hit the roof, sounding like walking in the attic, the boards groaning under the pressure.  I got up to look out the window, and to close it; two people shouted and ran, one following the other, down the street.  No idea where they came from.  Didn't occur to me until much later that it was a little odd for 4 am.  A little bit of thunder, a little bit of lightning, and two quick bands of rain.  Again, by the time I left my house, the pavement was mostly dry.  Bands of rain running up either side of the Puget Sound Basin, but as of noon, none falling here, at least not enough to make a difference.

A little later, the sky darkens as the two bands converge, and thunder rolls in the distance.  The leaves outside my window begin to flick, one at a time, under the weight of large drops, like some sorta' sped up animation (or time-lapse sequence.) Lightning flashes through the window followed shortly by a long (but not loud) peal of thunder.  By 1:30, it's a deluge.  Finally enough to soak the ground, feels like it's been months since we've had that.  Between 1 1/2" - 2" by the time I got home.  We certainly needed it, but it was somewhat dramatic.  I think it's still raining.

I think I've placed myself in too tight of a box as to the specifics of what my idea was.  What I presented to the producer.  Gotta find myself an out; I've written a lot over the past week, not much of it useful.  Thankfully, I managed to find my syllabus from the Solo Performance class, I'm gonna work my way through the exercises and see what that generates.  I have to stay with the gist of the source material, but hopefully can get myself out of this block.  I'm giving myself a draft deadline of Sunday...plus I have an audition I need to prepare for.

Someone is cooking something that smells good.  I should make dinner.  We had a garden party scheduled for this evening, but I'm guessing it got cancelled.  Just as well, I don't need more distractions.