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.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
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.)
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, September 26, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
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.
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.
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