Thud

I am Between. The Festival is over. I am on my way to Mississippi....but not there yet.

I'm not working. The guitar is in storage and there's no piano in this house. I am not singing.

I am smoking.
Staying up late.
Not getting dressed. Watching TV. Napping.

Now and then, my mind buzzes with ideas and questions, book titles, Holly Spring-related tasks I could be doing.

But mostly I feel the between-ness of this time, stare slack-jawed at the sky and move like a sloth.

Reflections on "In the Silence"

Silence relates to "solitude" and is one among other ideas to be unfurled in an expansion of "In the Silence," the 22-minute solo monologue I wrote and performed for the first Santa Cruz Fringe Festival, July 14, 15, 18, 21 and 22.

For a long time after landing the gig, my mind careened and clutched and babbled when I considered what to write. "I have nothing to say," a calm, clear, ravaged voice intoned from the center of the mayhem. Ultimately, the piece would begin "...sometimes it feels like there is nothing left to say" and end with "The redeeming mystery lives on in the vast ocean and slender strands of silence; where naked hearts echo and listen and dream dreams like primordial memory of breathing underwater."

It is good writing. It has occurred to me in the two days since the Festival ended that silence prevails in my life and is most profound when I am alone. As well, I note that my life is mostly solitude and that even during the interludes when I am in physical proximity to others, I breathe Solitude and Solitude breathes me.

I struggled to start writing "In the Silence" because I was preoccupied with thoughts about The Performance.  Which was, of course, insane since there could be no Performance if I didn't accomplish the writing.

Subconsciously, I think of performance (speaking specifically of contexts in which there is a mutually acknowledged audience/player protocol in place) as highly disruptive of solitude. As I approach a performance date, I sometimes get scared and am driven to desperately guard solitude and resist contact with ... people. Inside my own head, I make the transition from "alone" to "in front of people" awkwardly -- almost every time. 

I performed "In the Silence" five times over the course of the Festival. The repetition was instructive:  I had the opportunity to study the transition, in theory and practice. Most of what I learned still lives in too  integrated a place within me to translate into words yet; but here's a first stab:

• Performance is enlightened practice of Presence.  There is a tendency to invest undue attention in the trappings:  blocking, lights, costumes, publicity, memorization, etc. To think and think and think about these things.

• The thinking is not the performance. The thinking is thinking.

• Sometimes "connecting with the audience" becomes the theme of obsessive thought. This can result in either a heightened sense of needing something from them (applause, laughter, attention, etc.) or needing to be seen by them or needing to give/teach them something. This feeling can grow so large and central that it feels like an altered state:  I lose touch with my body; my voice sounds from somewhere far away. I don't exist in time and space.

When I feel this way, I will often forget my lines. 

• In performance, I am a messenger. I bring word from the distant land of solitude and prayer and play to share. The word is full. It is food.

• I have a new respect and appreciation for inspired Direction. And for rehearsal, which is not about fixing things in stone; rather, it's about a deepening playful awareness of the work. A time for free play with the available elements -- script, physical features of the space, light design, etc. "OK. With this much space, with these objects in it, and these lines to say, what art can we make?". -- in exploration of the question:  who is this character and what does she want?

It is a beautiful thing and I abandon guarding solitude in the process. I go willingly into the creative flow.

• Paradox observed:  state of solitude grew more pronounced with each performance. Similar to the expansive feeling I get sitting silent in a forest, by the final show I had an abiding sense of the great, silent Unknown that surrounds and holds me and the audience and all of Life, throughout my performance. Something akin to the way I once perceived God. An awareness of the complex simplicity and simple complexity of Being.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

To be continued......

Dog Whistler

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is generally uneventful. That's why mornings like today stand out. I don't know if such a thing is possible but I'd swear I was awakened by the sound of a dog whistling somewhere nearby.

Is it even physiologically possible for a dog to whistle? Or maybe it's certain breeds can do it and others not? And, if it's possible, why do they do it so rarely?  Is it like horses lying down -- a sign that something's wrong?

Checking In

The nomadic cycle has quickened in my life. After a month-long journey that included sojourns in New Orleans, Memphis, Holly Springs MS, Chicago (Park Forest), New Albany and Clarksville IN, and Louisville, I am back in the San Francisco Bay Area.

My residential base before the trip is not available, including its resident piano. Neither are previous sources of income available.

I am sitting in the public library on Telegraph. I am here because today is Change Location day but the key to the new location is not where I was told it would be and I can't get into the house. I'd driven there as soon as I woke up this morning; didn't even get dressed. Just slipped on shoes and got in the car. I discreetly changed from pj bottoms to shorts in the car. Parked outside the library I actually slipped a bra on beneath my pj top. I left text and VM at my host's cell #.

In the library, the internet connection was funky for 45 minutes...during which time I received two cell calls offering alternate lodging solutions -- one in Berkeley and the other in Santa Cruz.

I am facilitating a play-shop tomorrow from 4 to 6 at the Court of the Faithful Fools, after meeting at 2 with a potential "replacement" group leader. The players at the Court want to keep going. We have had a rich and marvelous time together since February. I will miss them and playing in the magical waters of our connection.

The script for the Santa Cruz Fringe Festival is still developing. It feels like I'm moving around too much to get any writing done but I don't believe that. I can't afford to believe it. I have to finish the script.

I believe it will come because "it" always comes. I have almost completely surrendered to the ever-changing rhythms of creativity and inspiration. Resistance is futile and needlessly stressful. Breathing, I detach from identification with the thoughts and feelings and emotions swirling and sparking in response to events in my life.

I am present. Awake. Knowing nothing....and breathing.

Holly Springs looms like a radiant, welcoming angel standing on a not-too-distant hill. Holly Springs is the next scheduled open-ended sojourn. I will carry house keys again and stop asking around for house-sit assignments. I'll plant a garden and probably teach piano.

I'll learn the way to Oxford, the nearest town of size to Holly Springs.  I'll keep a list on the refrigerator of things to pick up the next time I'm in "town."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I caught myself muttering "God damn!" under my breath earlier today and simultaneously noticed my posture:  shoulders tense and hunched, belly clenched, little bit of a frown on my face. 

Breathing, I detached from identifying with the frustration that produced the curse. Saw it, but not as my identity. Deep breath. Stretching.....standing all the way tall as I am. Eyes open. Breathing. Awake. Knowing nothing. Seeing what is.

My father is aging. His wife, my stepmother, is aging. We are all aging. My father is unhappy. His mind-belly is full of regret. He nurses old grudges. 

I see him as a beautiful spirit trapped in Hell. He does not know that if he released his bloody grip on the thorny bars of the cage, he would be free.

He opposed my use of the word "tragic" to describe our family saga.  For him, acceptance of that description would suggest his faith in God was lagging. "God is good.  God is good" he chants between recitations of decades-old injuries and conflicts. 

I see him as a beautiful spirit trapped in Hell.  It is tragic. I make no comment on how Daddy's story will unfold from now -- I believe healing, transformation and salvation are real and accessible for everyone.  And I see his current situation as tragic.

The next day:  Finally connected with my host and slept well in a king-sized bed beneath an open window.

I am grateful for everything:  the frustrations, the resolutions, the enduring questions, the surprises. My path wends through a varied landscape. This is a time of movement; later there will be seasons of rest.

Tip of the Iceberg

Today's cigarette insight:  My preferred writing situation is at night, in a room with open windows.  I like to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes while I write. Sometimes marijuana greases the wheels. Instrumental recorded music in background is good.  

(Some of) yesterday's most mind-bending revelations from talking to Daddy:

1.  They were pregnant with me before they married.
2. That house on Crystal that always looked familiar to me was where we lived when I learned to walk.
3. My grandmother's mother was not a preacher. My grandmother's grandfather was a preacher.
4. My father never met any of his father's family.

I have so much writing to do about this trip....

 

Day One: The Journey East

My engines are revved.  It's gonna be THAT kind of trip...

Missed my flight. I was thinking American and it was actually Frontier and so I got to the counter too late.

I was utterly befuddled and frustrated and frightened and....by the airport setup and many passengers grumbling and some woman who barely spoke English but was wearing a uniform was trying to tell me that I had to go to the end of the line I was in, the long line I was in, the third long line ...

I ignored her and moved on when I finally realized there would be no resolution to the language breakdown between us.

In retrospect, I wish I'd viewed the encounter as an angel message, alerting me that I was in the wrong line.

Anyway, when I reached the halfway mark in that queue -- in what I would soon discover was the "wrong" one -- I found myself adjacent to a beautiful, rosy-cheeked young man. When our eyes met, we both smiled and even chuckled a little for no reason at all. We started talking about his trip to Ecuador...which caught the ear of another woman, very sweet face, and she joined the conversation. We were three humans, conversing and smiling, in the midst of a sea of stressed, pissed-off humanity.

And, I swear, the world just got sooooo sweet and interrelated from that point on. I was smiling when I reached the counter and smiling as I learned I was in the wrong line and had 5 minutes to run to the next terminal....

Sure, I stomped my foot and cursed when another beautiful young man told me that the gate was closed and that, even though it was 20 minutes till the plane would take off, there was just no way for me to board.

But the guy who told me was a Jamaican, less than a week in his new job. And he was friendly and my heart loved hearing him talk. He issued me a boarding pass for tomorrow -- same time, same place -- and I set out to find the BART stop.

I thought I was going back to Berkeley to spend the day and then find a ride back to SFO in the morning.

The "stupid! stupid! stupid!" chant inside my head was loosing steam. I realized I was free, a freak:  yeah, I could feel stupid and angry about missing a flight.

But I didn't have to.

There was no station agent on duty when I reached BART and I needed a ticket. It took me about two minutes to step full into my freak/outlaw/free agent mind set and realize that I could simply open the gate and walk through.  I fully intended to purchase a ticket from the machine once inside....

but

neither of the two machines were functioning.  And I laughed out loud:  signs, signs, everywhere signs about not drinking and not smoking and not putting your feet on the seats and not leaving bags unattended and etc. All these rules -- and no one around to enforce them.

When the train arrived, I got on. Without a ticket.

At the Rockridge stop, according to the "system", I would have some explaining to do and owe the ticket price of $9.60.

but

The station agent on duty was a New Orleanian. When he heard I'd missed my flight and been unable to purchase a ticket at SFO, he laughed and I laughed and he charged me $2.

************

So on we go.

Just got off the phone with Oleg, my pick-up in New Orleans. I shared some of the story of The Adventure So Far and he said, "Leave it to you, Alex, to turn missing your flight into a fabulous day."

It's not that I'm special and the rules don't apply.  It's that we're all special and I'm one of the lucky ones who realizes the rules don't apply.

More later......

YES is a powerful Word

I love my kids at Y.E.S.  Picked up my sweatshirt today.  We worked and played hard together today.  People acted out and got called on it by me or one of the other kids. Almost every kid that acted out,  apologized to me before I left today. I got called out once, too, and apologized.

What a great day!

Tonight, I'm considering doing a lot more theater with drug abuse teenagers...