assemblage/in medias res

2007-01-29T12:39:00.001-08:00

At this moment, I cannot imagine anything better than the company of Eric and Natalie, a big mountain to climb, and watching a (the) Little Giant wandering the streets of Santiago.

2006-05-21T00:44:00.000-07:00

right leg left leg lean and squat right. adjust to right with left leg outstretched. left sole flat, feeling floor, and sickled (slightly). reach forward--torso--rest arms, elbows down, on floor, palms up, fingers slightly curled in a natural state. a state of grace and longing and calm and comforting love. it is possible. and it is possible all at once.

and then close.
and then exit.

we are here.

2006-03-09T07:30:00.000-08:00

It's important to respond to it.

2006-03-02T13:01:00.000-08:00

Last week I saw The Squid and the Whale.

I have found myself mentioning it often. Just a few moments ago, I wrote the following to S.:

Be prepared to simultaneously laugh and cry at the ridiculousness of this relationship thing we humans do, of the way we damage ourselves and eachother--date and marry and have children and break up and damage our kids and damage ourselves and fall in love again and again and again... and still never feel sure of any of it.

2006-02-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

In my late night panic (late night panics are a very typical thing these days), I sat down to read the new issue of Harper's. I wanted to read Lewis Lapham's "Notebook." I knew that that would surely engage me, that reading Lewis Lapham would allow me to focus myself right out of panic mode. It didn't occur to me that I should be surprised that I had a new issue--when for years, I have been the last (of the subscribers I know) to receive the new issue. I flipped through the pages. I couldn't find the "Notebook." I couldn't find it. Then I remembered that Lapham was leaving his post as editor, and I just couldn't remember when exactly that was supposed to happen. I checked the website to see if perhaps my issue was faulty (a little crazy I know)--perhaps both my issue's Table of Contents page and its actual contents were wrong (yup, a little crazy). Maybe they were missing pages. I was surprised to see that the new issue's contents were not even up on the website yet. What? Also, I work in a library, and this library hasn't even received this new issue yet. More panic. I thought Lapham was going to continue writing the "Notebook" section--even after he moved on to his new project...and the masthead in this issue still says Lapham anyway... I slept fitfully last night, and I can't seem to write a fluid sentence. There was a punchline here I thought. Are you laughing?

2005-12-04T23:00:00.001-08:00

Every year my extended family (extended meaning perhaps 100+ people from 4 generations) gather for the traditional [insert family name here] Christmas party (not on Christmas but rather the Saturday after Thanksgiving). We sing songs, we catch up, we partake in an emceed talent show/storytelling time, we pass out the traditional S. Soup that is made (as is the tradition) the night before in a large, old, pot that used to belong to my grandmother. I should add that anything that I have heard once belonged to my grandmother has a special significance. I’ve never met her (I was only eight months old when she died), and I’ve heard very little about her. In fact, the most often told story about her is the one in which my mother, after letting H. (my grandmother) put me to bed late one evening while my parents were visiting, felt this sudden urge to check on me. She rushed into the room where I was sleeping and found that my grandmother had bundled me tightly in blankets—only leaving my feet outside of the blanket instead of my head. My grandmother had a brain tumor at the time. I am intrigued by the contradictions I’ve heard: she was stubborn, tough, strong of will yet she let my grandfather make and enforce the rules.

This year at the [insert family name here] Christmas Party, I was moved to laughter (which is typical) but also to tears. Usually the cousins and second cousins of my generation outgrow the talent show portion of the day around 12 or 13. This year, a group of my twenty-something second cousins gathered in front of us to play Teach Your Children Well. It was beautiful. I had tears in my eyes. Those peaceful minutes made me love my family, reminded me how much I love this tradition of gathering. I honestly could look around and see people beaming and clasping hands and wiping away tears and dancing, dancing for B., my dad’s cousin who had left us just a few days earlier. She had declared before she died that she’d be "dancing, dancing 24/7 in heaven." Some of these people were dancing with her, in memory of her. I tried to capture a small piece of these moments. It’s brief and shaky, but it might take you there—to the beaming, to the clasping, to the calm that was present for those few short minutes one Saturday afternoon.

For the brief and shaky clip, click here:

Teach Your Children Well

2005-11-08T18:17:00.000-08:00

when i was a little kid, i used to think that 27 would be the year i would get married. i think what i meant was that 27 was the year i would wake up.

2005-09-20T21:47:00.000-07:00

I’m sure that most of you, too, have received the coupon for a free-Angels-Satin Panty-(Please-see-associate-for-redemption.-No-purchase-necessary)-plus-$5-off-any-bra coupon from Victoria’s Secret. Yes, the V.S. bra models’ facial expressions are usually a little bit over the top…but this one. This one. This one was the impetus for hooking up my scanner to the computer immediately, now, for your benefit:

I finished a letter to P. today. A long-ish letter. An honest letter. He might be scared of it. P., tell me later, were you scared of it?

Here is my new struggle with having a blog: who the hell am I writing to? Are you reading this? If I talk to you regularly, do you know this already?

I returned to The Coffee Shop (capitalization intentional—that place where things happen, where one can think, watch, yearn, focus, separate, connect--all of these things all at once) this evening. I returned there (following a long hiatus) after picking out a cute little baby present for C. and E.’s one month old son, cleaning up the kitchen, working madly through the NYT crossword puzzle (of course I didn’t finish it do I ever finish it have I ever finished it am I capable of ever finishing it surely, completely?) while smoking a cigarette that disgusted me, stretched my legs, put on pants and rolled up one leg to take my bike, thought better of it (and remembered which coffee shops were open late) and rolled my pant leg back down, and walked there instead. I hadn’t had coffee all day. And as soon as I made it halfway through the cup, I realized that my god, my day is just so much better when I start it with a cup of strong coffee. I ended up having two—not necessarily a great idea when the first one happens at 8-ish p.m., but perhaps my productivity streak will last until the wee hours. I started writing—just reflections—and found some strange comfort and calm in the fact that there were a just a few pages left in my notebook. I haven’t officially “finished” a notebook in about 3 years. I have multiple notebooks, and I have been bouncing back and forth (but not in an organized Golden Notebook way) between them for quite a while. To make sense of any of sporadic life documentation from this time would be difficult considering not only is it sporadic but also completely out of sequence: the notebooks are not separated by any truly organized conceptual logic. It is nice to finish one, to close it off, when it seems that that is what I so desperately need right now—to have something clear, defined, to have something either be done or just begun. Things come together when they need to, despite how I wish to not believe this, to believe that I do not believe this. The fall months: beginning and/or end...

"...starring Del the book"

2005-09-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

This is too funny.

"From Library to Patron: A tour of MINITEX Delivery from the book's point of view
An informative photographic explanation of the MINITEX Delivery System starring Del the Book."

http://www.minitex.umn.edu/delivery/tour.asp

2005-09-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

From a listserv response to a message inquiring about ways to deal with library student worker dress codes...the conversation eventually grew to include the librarians' dress codes as well:

"At [insert name of school] we have always strictly enforced the rule that all librarians must be dressed, unless the indoor temperature rises above 85 degrees F."

2005-08-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

"There's an openness to poetry that gives shape to things that are overwhelming."
-Jim Moore

2005-08-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

don't let them do that to you.
don't let them do that to you.
don't let them do that to you.
(something to remember)

2005-07-21T16:08:00.000-07:00

My heart hurts today. There is some weird, unexpected stuff going on, and I hate to have to realize again that someone I had put on a (I thought deserved) pedestal could, instead...not sure I should say it.. It makes no sense, no sense, no sense.

I've wanted to cry all day today, so I'd like to truly thank Mimi Smartypants for her 07.21 post; it made me smile. Especially take note of the 36a story (that's me too, I swear), the Clinton bit, and the Japanese smoking etiquette signs. Genius.

That's all I can muster right now.

2005-07-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

Life moves in circles...
and
Things are never as beautiful as you wish them to be.
I didn't really sleep last night, or the night before, or the night before that.

2005-06-27T20:03:00.000-07:00

Tonight the sky is green. It’s not quite dark. There is rumbling in the air.

And with absolutely no transition, a story of Sunday.

A picnic, at Minnehaha Falls. Random park visitors were drinking, quite openly even, out of glass wine glasses filled from, yes, a real bottle of wine. This is funny to me only because of a little run-in a few of us had at Hidden Beach last weekend involving the cops, a mere six bottles of Premium, and a late night swim. In the oft-told story, we were “almost arrested” (but given three tickets each instead) and lined up in a row on the beach in our swimsuits. The swimming, however, was wonderful.

I love picnics. I love people joining together to share random gifts of sustenance in the grass. I love how grocery store visits in groups take forever, are hilarious with mass indecisiveness, and involve aimless wanderings and discussions about apple varieties.

Eventually we loaded seven people and a picnic into J.B.’s 1960-something Electra and headed for the park. We played some Frisbee (well, we played 500 with a Frisbee and I kind of just got scared of all us running in the same direction so I just sort of played 500), we waded in the creek, and we laughed at a lot of bestiality (it was really hot outside that day) jokes.

On the return trip, J.B. had to stop to put air in his tires. We piled out as he did so. Did you know that you actually have to take off pieces of a 1960-something Electra in order to fill the tires? We piled back in and watched while, first, a barefoot man and then immediately following him, a shirtless man, walked into the S.A. Like a cartoon it was, except the punchline never happened.

My right leg fell asleep during both the to and fro trips (it was cozy, so I guess that happens). It went through all the phases of dormancy and reached the tingly stage just as I needed to walk.

Summer with lovely people makes it all seem okay.

Regarding Pants

2005-06-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long time, I guess. As I’ve mentioned (maybe too often) I am ambivalent about having a blog, about posting words publicly. And while a lot of noteworthy (to me anyway) things have happened since I last posted something, I am constantly torn between simply thinking about the situation (and writing privately about it) and writing a post (because once it is posted it seems separate somehow and then, perhaps, sometimes lost. I thought that this feeling of mine was oddly substantiated when I heard it addressed by Ayelet Waldman and Michael Chabon during their Literary Friendships appearance (another parenthetical thought: listening to archived radio shows makes my daily work day brighter and makes it so much easier to sit at a desk in the library basement). They talked about making a decision to abandon regular blog postings because of a concern for lost story threads, a concern that once something is written down and shared, it’s not growing in one’s head in quite the same way. I think these things too—and then I simultaneously think that sometimes it’s okay to just mention something roughly, to use the roughage as a starting point.

It goes on in my head. And on and on. Decisions are not something I am very skilled at making; I go back and forth. I’m never sure (about much of anything)…and that’s fine, right? It is a grey, grey world we live in.

About last night and about being aware.
I’m taking care of a friend’s dog this weekend. I’m mostly just stopping by her house a few times a day to let the dog out, take it for walks, feed it, reward it with these hilarious things called Beggin’ Treats. (The package describes them as cheese and bacon flavored treats, but I’m not sure that I would say that’s what they smell like and oh my goodness the lingering aroma they leave on one’s hands---even if you just touch a tiny little corner of the faux bacon treat—wow. And they actually look like real pieces of bacon—complete with the pretend fat and the wavy shape. So weird.) I stopped by after work yesterday to take S. (the dog) for a walk, a meander really. We walked out the gate of the apartment building’s back yard just in time to greet two mid-30ish men—kind of creepy looking actually—reclined in a late 80s Honda sipping out of paper bag-encased bottles. They sat up to say hello; you know, they were friendly. We talked briefly about dogs, and specifically the dog I had on a leash, and then S. wanted to meander across the alley. I was wearing these high-heeled sandals, a black blazer, some work pants, feeling kind of silly/nervous about being watched by two strange men lying down in their car while I had forgotten to bring any plastic baggies to clean up after S. Of course I felt even more silly/nervous when I returned to that area in the alley in my ridiculous high-heeled sandals, black blazer, and work pants with a plastic bag.

I played softball last night with my old team, G. Love and Special Sausage, in the very busy and stressful position of Right Field. I actually had a couple of okay hits though—along with one or two (I think 2—I often forget to actually keep track of scores and stats when playing sports...I will, embarrassingly often, play an Ultimate game, love every minute of it, and then forget the score immediately upon leaving—and sometimes forget whether we had even won or lost.) RBIs. During this game I was reminded of how heavily attached I am to places, to settings, to the feelings I associate with them. Last night, I played softball in a familiar position with many of the same people who were on the team last year but found myself feeling rather lost when the same amusing banter on the field from “Boris,” the same crazy (and lovely) positive energy from J.F., the same presence of the laidback ref (she stopped the game to run over to the ice cream truck) weren't being enjoyed by the same me. I’m not with the same person anymore. I don’t have the same plans in my head. I’m not sure if I know that I even have definite plans in my head. I think I might be mentally healthier. I think I might be more confused. I think I might be growing more comfortable with uncertainty.

Last night continued. I went to the Chatterbox with J. I looked at the menu without looking at it and then asked our server to remind me about the beers she had on tap. She told me, in exquisite detail. I looked at the menu again and saw that there was at least half a page actually dedicated to the beer descriptions and felt bad that I had asked her such a silly question. She came back. I apologized. She said she didn’t really mind. She was the cute one with knee-his and bouncy hair. She looks like she could secretly be a superhero. I accidentally ordered a sandwich that had turkey on it (apparently I wasn’t so skilled with the menu-reading last night). I surreptitiously picked it off and passed it across the table to J., who added it to his sandwich. I visited the Chatterbox’s fantastic bathroom space and realized that I had sat in something. It was dark in there, and I didn’t look. (Things I need to remember to do in the future [regarding pants]: look at a chair before you sit down in it—this, unfortunately, is not something I have learned the first or second time--; don’t store a partially chewed piece of gum on your knee while watching a movie in a theatre—while my cousin actually experienced the result of doing this, I still feel pretty strongly about remembering this tip; big, plastic glasses full of water do not belong in a car’s cupholder—if you happen to drive over a curb, a big, plastic glass of water is more likely to spill all over your pants and you might not have the opportunity to go home and change before going to work; and beware of consuming Junior Mints in the car—I learned this one both in my car and my brother’s…doing so can cause both pant-related embarrassment and sibling upheaval.)

Last night continued. I think it is amazing when someone says exactly what you have been hoping to hear—and means it sincerely. I think it is lovely when this happens over and over again.

Last night continued. Sometimes stupid movies at the Riverview are the best way to clear one's head of negativity. Andy Dick makes me laugh.

2005-06-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

Can someone please tell me how to know when you are making the right decisions? I keep trying to just pay attention to today because it is important to be mindful and appreciative of the little things that each day brings, but sometimes I can’t ignore anymore that every decision I am making is moving me more in one direction than in another. How do you know you are with the right person? How many moments of “this doesn’t feel right” are too many? How do you make deal with the “this feels right but doesn’t make sense at all” situations? How much do you pay attention to what other people suggest or advise? When do you believe that people really mean what they say? How do you continue to trust in people, in the continuity of time, in the eventuality of an unraveled knot when each day things seem to grown more confusing?

May's Top Ten

2005-05-26T21:09:00.000-07:00

Friend S. continued this wonderful tradition (started by her Friend J.) of writing a periodic Top Ten (maybe monthly) to share noteworthy things that have happened in a short period of time. Events and feelings--when separated--may seem rather inconsequential but when cataloged can make one cognizant of patterns.

Here is my list for May.
(Unnumbered and in completely random order)

Dancing with a group of amazing women, finding that we are closer than we realized, learning so much from each of them.

The summer Ultimate Frisbee season: Go Team Bart.

The glow of yellow cork on my old ten speed’s handlebars (and the empowered feeling I had after realizing that I could put it there by myself after being told that “You know…it’s pretty hard to do that well. You should maybe have me do it—or get it done at a bike shop”…and I guess there is more empowerment here to speak of…the realization that sometimes people tell you some really mean things and sometimes you should just not invest so much in those people.)

Reprise with Joan, the wooden doll: My friend, C., made this doll to dance with while living in a village in the Czech Republic. We danced with Joan in Milwaukee about six years ago, and we danced with Joan this spring in Minneapolis. A symbolic note: Joan was indestructible when we worked with her in Milwaukee; she was also simply the color of natural wood. During the course of rehearsals, Joan lost nearly all of her limbs at one point or another and cracked her head. Joan is still around: she has been repaired with an assortment of household materials, she has been painted by children…Still Joan, still Joan, but with color and strength.

Joan’s Best Balm: A homemade gift from C. It heals things that hurt.

J.'s open mic, J.'s beautiful music, J.'s big heart.

The porch, the porch, the porch.

Hearing my Grandma tell me how she used to dance the Tango at a ballroom on Nicollet.

The return of Mr. N.—back from the world of academia.

The Sap Rising performance: two local choreographers celebrating spring naked one Saturday night in the Merriam Park neighborhood of St. Paul.

2005-05-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just want to write, “This is what I did today; this is what I felt, noticed, heard”—just to tell you.

Sometimes I am torn by the conflict between public and private writing, a conflict that, to me, seems exacerbated by the very idea of a blog…and I stop.

2005-05-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

Yikes. What a week. A list of sorts: I spent a day at a symposium, learning about digital repositories; this made me eager to advocate for this topic within my own place of employment. I started the summer Ultimate season. I got lost on the way to work. Yes, this is true. I went to drop off a key for J. and found myself completely guessing as to how to get onto the freeway in order to drive in the correct direction. I thought I might save time and search ahead (i.e. east) for an entrance ramp instead of backtracking west. Unfortunately, I only found 55E—and was stuck on this road in traffictraffic (I love this doubling effect with words—some local choreographers’ rented studio space is called SpaceSpace. My little brother, upon receiving a baby Pound Puppy for his first (Is this right? Can babies speak when they are just a year old?) birthday and being asked what its name was, replied, “Name” with great confidence in his tone of voice.). I then made a u-turn and tried, without success, to get back on 94E. Instead I found myself entering the U of M area. Then I simultaneously thought, “Go to the West Bank and turn around” but took the East Bank exit. I was quite late for work—and quite embarrassed to actually have to say that yes, I did get lost on my way to a job I have had for over two years. Rehearsal on Wednesday found us finding comfort in letting this work-in-progress piece rest (it will be performed as a work-in-progress) and discussing scary things dancers sometimes find/develop on their feet. (I used to be into feet. Someone once commented that much of my writing features prominently placed pedi-prose (although not in those words...I just made those up.)) On Wednesday night, I had to return to work to finish some last minute details before our Thursday-Friday faculty workshop. I ended up locking myself in the library’s basement until 12:30 in the morning, constantly looking over my shoulder because the elevator was running even though the library was closed. Being that on-edge makes it, um, difficult to get work done quickly. Thursday and Friday were long days. I ran into a bit of ageism—but in reverse. I need to further process the things that happened, the things that were said, to fully address the situation, but I found it rather ironic that in a two-day discussion about how to better educate a college population of traditional and non-traditional students, there was still a vague sense of some wanting only to further stress their elitist mindsets. I’ll have to elaborate on this later. We did make some headway though, and it looks like librarians and faculty will be able to successfully collaborate much more in the coming years, with hopes of graduating more information-literate students. By lunchtime today, I was squirming in my seat like a little kid. I was fantasizing about jumping up and just taking a run around campus—just over and over again until I was completely worn out. This reminded me of something we used to do with my dad. On long road trips (after our coveted (long story, maybe some other time) bathroom breaks, we would take a run around the gas station, around the rest stop, around the fast food restaurant. We would run around and around and around together until we had purged ourselves of excess energy. I remember watching my dad’s feet when he ran; I remember my mom waiting patiently in the van for her family.

And still, at twenty-seven, I will take a run around the gas station, the rest stop, the fast food restaurant on my own road trip breaks. I will make a point to visit Waffle Houses whenever I see them. I will look for out-of-the-way places and consider even non-adventures adventures. I will remind myself of my dad, my kind of traveler.

a number/a point

2005-05-20T06:14:00.000-07:00

How many chances is too many chances?

2005-05-12T16:32:00.000-07:00

In the last two days, I have sewn the edges of two torn strips of a large, green bedsheet, and I have wanted to hug the woman at the Minnehaha Ave. Sew What shop for sewing the edges of two others. I have doubted every decision that I can reasonably attribute to my current position in life.

I wanted to hate my imperfect sewing machine instead of hating my utter inability to both fix the broken parts and determine which parts are even broken. (I wanted to stop writing metaphorically, stop merely hinting at what I really mean. The best I can do? I’ll just say it again.) I wanted to hate my imperfect sewing machine instead of hating my utter inability to both fix the broken parts and determine which parts are even broken.

I attended one dance rehearsal where the choreographer reworked and reworked and reworked until we found ourselves—when the time was up—at the same point of not knowing--of not having something solid, or stable, or sure. I went to the second dance rehearsal and danced and laughed and secretly chided myself for not being able to successfully lead a turn with my head, for losing my balance, for forgetting.

I almost got a sewing machine needle severely lodged in my fingernail.

I said (with mock seriousness), during a discussion about plants vs. flowers as gifts, that just because I’m wearing ugly pants and messy pigtails doesn’t mean I’m incapable of picking out a nice plant. And then I wanted to hug the women I’ve been dancing with but didn’t; I’ve learned so much from each of them.

I laughed at myself and cried to myself. I drank a beer. I asked for help. I said, “No, I don’t want help.”

I told my mom that I couldn’t hear her, that her phone was breaking up, when she started hinting about the “right person” for me. I really couldn’t hear her every word, but I could hear key phrases. She laughed and said, “You’re doing that because you don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to hear this.”

In the last two days, I’ve heard people use the idiom “trial by fire” at least three times in two different settings. In the last two days, I heard the idiom “trial by fire” for the first time.

...because I can't overtly comment on this in certain places

2005-05-10T15:30:00.001-07:00

A very real message:

"Yesterday at the IT staff training meeting for laptop returns, I
mentioned that I would be willing to lead prayer each of the next three
mornings for our staff and the university. This morning three of us
were able to share our thoughts and feeling with God about laptop
returns. We prayed for all of you who are helping with laptop returns.
Anyone is welcome to join us over the next two mornings for prayer. Do
not feel like it is mandatory you attend. Just know that we are praying
for our staff and the university as we look to go through laptop returns
with the strength of God."

2005-05-05T17:28:00.000-07:00

So, a library story:

Today a student asked for my help. I came over to where he was sitting. We talked about what kind of information he was looking for on the way over to his computer. This student was a large football player. As we neared the tables, I could see which spot was his, and I remember finding his Diet Coke bottle rather funny. I’m not sure why I found it funny—or if there is something very wrong with my finding that funny—but I was amused. I found it hilarious. I found it rather endearing that he moved his Diet Coke bottle to the floor as we sat down. I assumed that maybe he thought he wasn’t supposed to have beverages in the library, so he wanted to keep it out of my sight. I was pleasantly surprised (although slightly annoyed that he let it ring really loudly) when he answered his cell phone and said “No, just sandwiches,” and then “Love you” to the person on the phone--all in front of the librarian. I was struck by his honesty when he said things like “Research is really stressful,” “This is a lot of work,” and “Thanks for your help.”

Then he leaned to his left, reached down for the Diet Coke bottle, and spit.

2005-05-04T15:55:00.000-07:00

I often eat lunch in the break room with a book. (As an aside, sometimes it is a book I am actually reading; sometimes it is a book that I pull randomly off the shelf. Last week, one of these books was Bill Owens’ Suburbia. I’ll let you peruse that one yourself.) Equally as often, I heat my soup in the microwave. Because the breakroom is connected to the I.T. department’s office space (and one poor guy has to sit right next to the door, greeted by everyone’s lunch-y smells…blech I don’t know how he handles it), I try to stop the microwave right before the buzzer starts to go off (dealing with a spectrum of lunch aromas and an incessant microwave buzzer might make one irritable in my opinion). I should point out that I then take my soup to the table—without pressing the microwave’s clear button. I wouldn’t even notice that I don’t press the “clear” button if it weren’t for H. (see below). I just forget, I think. I don’t see the importance of it, and I have so many other things that I am always trying desperately to remember. So after I’ve heated my soup and am eating it, enjoying my random book of the day, I.T. worker H. will walk in and stand in the middle of the room like he is doing something important. (I used to think that he was filling a mug with coffee but have since realized that he enters and leaves the room with an empty mug. Interestingly, he holds this empty mug close to his chest; he never dangles it from a finger.) After spending a few moments moving back and forth in the middle of the breakroom, H. will walk swiftly back to the microwave in order to press the “clear” button. After he presses the “clear” button, he rushes out of the room. After months of this same scenario, I finally said “Oh, I’m sorry” in my sweetest voice and with my sweetest smile, just before he disappeared through the doorway. His response: “No problem. It happens all the time.”

2005-04-30T14:56:00.000-07:00

Oh...and when did the BLB's servers become so formal?
(e.g. "...and the [special] was quite to my liking," he said with hands clasped gently in that yin-yang shape.)

Psst, three times/three ways

2005-04-30T14:04:00.000-07:00

Three things from Friday:

A constant pit of smouldering nervousness in my heart. This will not be elaborated on in print. In the end, things were okay (yet sadly not okay.)
Once the nervousness subsided, I felt that it was okay to proceed with my Friday plans. I went with A. to see Z. in “Psst,” a live rendition of JASON’s graphic novels at Franklin Art Works. It was, to quote my sister, “very original.” The mere idea of turning two-dimensional black and white art into three-dimensional performance art/movement is, in itself, an ingenious one. “Psst” made it work in a number of ways. In order to transport the audience to that shifting border between two dimensions and three, the work started with a single, masked character in front of three cloth-covered frames. As he began the development of his character, the cloth was being adorned (by invisible painters from behind) with black paint. This became the setting, and it created a silent dialogue between The Janitor’s actions and his resulting (or existing?) surroundings. They were frames on many levels. Another mind-bending moment occurred when two of the characters were in the park. The park was created with, again, the background of white, cloth-covered frames. (This time the painting had been done beforehand.) At the beginning of the scene, the frames were side-by-side; this construction convinced me, as an audience member, to believe that I was watching a two-dimensional world. And then the frames moved: they were separated and shifted to different parts of the stage, creating a depth that while logically expected was still powerful to watch. It was so powerful, that it might be more accurate to say that the audience experienced this dimension change rather than just watched it. Also noteworthy were the characters themselves. Their two dimensional quality (and thus, distance, in my opinion) was enhanced by their masks (large, papier-mâché, anthropomorphic faces). The audience was allowed no connection with the characters' eyes due to these masks. When The Janitor and The Secretary found themselves underground, they were met with maskless inhabitants of this new place. These maskless faces were so dramatically painted—and their facial expressions so grotesque—that the change in effect was almost too galvanic to bear quietly. “Psst” was transportive.
And earlier, long lost (and twice) C. called. Yeah! I love when little reminders of the past bring such brightness to one’s day.

2005-04-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm wearing striped, multicolored knee-highs at work today.

2005-04-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

At dance rehearsal last night, we had a really interesting conversation about relationships.

And then we pulled out the old chairs, the ones that have been painted black—and then taped together in their broken places—and then painted black again. We danced to John Lee Hooker.

Our choreographer wasn’t there—he had tech for his company shows—and I don’t know how this topic originally came up, but somehow there was a discussion of young girls and their boyfriends and their need for boyfriends and how to raise your children so they have their own sense of self worth.

At one point, E. told us about a conversation she had had with one of her students. She had said that “the guy you are going to marry isn’t just a guy that you find and make a decision about. He should be much more than that. He should be your best friend. Why else would you want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

It’s an obvious statement, yes, but it made me realize some things.

2005-02-03T16:07:00.000-08:00

Confession: I haven’t been posting things here because I want them first to be perfect, because I have not yet explored a particular idea as thoroughly as I would have liked. I want each thing made visible to be the complete thought, the round and consummate representation. After last night—after the last two years really—I understand that there is no such thing. There are no borders. There are no definite shapes. There are things that grow and bleed and shrink and shift. A common rule of writing workshops is this: Don’t qualify. Just read the words; let them be there. I’m going to stop that now: the qualifications, the reconsiderations, the feeling of it not being quite right, quite finished, quite complete. Stop that now and just throw it out (throw it out there), she tells herself. This is all just a beginning, is it not? This is all both the beginning and the middle of things.

bound and unrestricted

2005-01-21T11:24:00.000-08:00

At our first dance rehearsal on Sunday, we practiced this movement which involved six people. One person lies on the ground. The other five place a hand on the reclined person's hands, feet, and head. This person, when comfortable with the reliability of these bodily connections, begins to move her appendages. As she applies pressure, those people connected to her feet, hands, head, apply equal pressure in return. What ends up happening is this: the support (or rather returned pressure) of the five acts as a floor for the one. The one, then, can bring her movement to the air, changing the way that gravity/pressure supports her. She finds new ways to move, new ways to initiate movement; she moves in a manner both bound and unrestricted.

2005-01-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

The new year arrived as we walked on Franklin Avenue between Aldrich and Bryant. I found this curiously symbolic, so transitional it was.