A Country Girl Becomes a City Girl Again (Until the Harvest)

On Sunday, I leave for Toronto; I'll be there for roughly six weeks (and may spend a few days in Montreal and Ottawa, or elsewhere in Eastern Canada). I'm excited and very happy...

In a Park where I Played as a Child

Walking through a playground by the home of a childhood friend, I found myself remembering.




There are so many places we frolicked here. I found it a bit surreal to look at the swingsets and jungle gyms and see how small they are, since in my memory they towered like skyscrapers...




Other memories tower too.

I remember her dunken father: unsteady on their yellow porch, bellowing.



Remember how afraid she was to walk across the grass alone to her abusive father's fists. (She spent the night at my house so often as a child that my mom bought us bunkbeds. When we were just a few feet tall, she told me she wanted to run away. She didn't, though -- how far can a ten year old girl run?)



I found myself wondering about her: hoping she has found a safer place to be -- and still feeling afraid.



Did she marry a man like her father?

The Joy of Fresh Peaches, Still Warm from the Sun

I sometimes see the simplicity of my current life and think I don't deserve it. (What right do I have to spend hours writing, painting, reading, designing, and cultivating an organic veggie garden?)

Then I remember how very hard I've worked: how I barely breathed for years -- and how severely I crippled my wrists during 70-hour weeks hunched over a laptop in Toronto -- and I say yes: I do deserve this.

(And so do you.)




A couple days ago, my dad and I picked about twenty peaches from a tree in our yard. They were magnificent -- organic (and sometimes a bit insect-eaten) and so aromatic. I had forgotten how wonderful they are...




I've been watching the seasons change. I love to look back at my photographs of the transformation: a photo from Spring (pear blossoms) and the small Japanese pears that are now growing on that tree. (Delightful!)

Toad's Eye View

Just a moment ago, while weeding sunflowers...




... a discovery:

Through a Small Glass (Brightly)

David Duclos: are you reading this?

~ * ~

No?

Good...

~ * ~

Yes?

Then please stop now -- and please return after July 13th. :)

~ * ~

I am working on a stained glass piece: a gift for David and Manjit -- to celebrate their wedding. I've been thinking about it for a couple weeks, and yesterday I sketched out a preliminary design.





This morning and afternoon, I started to add detail to the sketch (and remove some detail from the dress):




Then I added colour:




(There's much more to do, of course -- but I thought I'd share the progress here. I'll post an update with new photographs in a day or two.)

A Flowering Summer Squash, Accompanied by Georgia O'Keefe

"Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time -- and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time.

"If I could paint the flower exactly as I see it no one would see what I see because I would paint it small like the flower is small. So I said to myself -- I'll paint what I see -- what the flower is to me but I'll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking time to look at it -- I will make even busy New Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

"Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower -- and I don't."

Georgia O'Keefe

Three Days of Rain

When I woke this morning, the sun had just begun to burn the fog away. I dashed outside with my camera and captured this:




And this:




Three days of rain -- and the sunflowers have grown to my thighs. The desiccated earth is moist again. The leaves are vivid green... The lake is high.

A Martha Graham Moment

This morning, still feeling a bit fatigued from last night, I showered slowly: feeling the heat of the water dissolving points of tension in my neck. Then, after toweling dry, I stood before my closet, looking for the path of least resistance.

I found a pair of (khaki) linen pants and slipped them on. Then I pulled a stretchy green blouse over my head and paused as I twisted to the side to stretch my back.

It was there -- spine twisted left, eyes cast down, elbows stretching the fabric in unnatural angles -- that I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. There was something surreal about that moment -- a resonance that took me a moment to identify: in some small (and accidental) way, I resembled Martha Graham.




_________________________

(Photo credits: Top image is from Graham's "Letter to the World," photographed by Barbara Morgan; bottom image is from "Lamentation," photographed by Herta Moselsio and displayed on the Library of Congress website.)

I See Your Green Tea (And Raise You: Oolong)

For Ariel, with gratitude and wary kindness:




Kettle calls; steam soothes
like ginger on ragged voice.
One high tea with you.

I Was "Summa Cum Laude" -- Would You Like Fries With That?

Arriving home last night, I slowly unlaced my shoes and peeled off my clothing. Note the mandatory black and white color scheme; after seven years of working primarily in the performing arts, I have taken a part-time job as a waitress...

I slumped on the couch and could still smell the odors rising from my work clothes: deep fried catfish, baked cabbage, and stale cigarettes. I pushed the pile further away with my foot. (Apparently, I no longer lead a glamorous life. But was my life ever really glamorous -- even if it may have sometimes appeared to be?)

I slipped on an old cotton T-shirt and limped to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. Leaning against the stove, waiting for water to boil, I scanned my body as a dancer might: feeling for points of tension, strain, and injury. My lower back ached from five hours of sprinting across the concrete floor, my shoulders were tight, and my throat felt sore. (My wrists -- with tendons like Achilles -- felt okay: not good, but okay. After many months of excruciating wrist pain -- and appointments with neurologists -- and an electroencephalogram I still haven't been able to pay off -- "okay" is pretty fucking wonderful.)

So I ran a bath with lavender salts and soaked for an hour, sipping camomile tea.


~ * ~


Reflecting on the night: it went surprisingly well.

I waited on several families with kids, and I genuinely enjoyed most of them. (To my surprise, most of the kids also enjoyed me.)

The loveliest by far was a four-year-old girl named Brooklyn; she wants to be a waitress (like her mother), and because I appeared to be living her dream, she liked me instantly. She promptly left her grandmother's side and followed me around like an acolyte.

I had intended to give her a tour, but she was a regular customer and knew her way around the restaurant better than I did. So I enlisted her help as a "junior waitress," pointing at the broom and vacuum cleaner. She began an anti-crumb crusade: dutifully sweeping (with the handle of the broom wobbling at least a full foot above her sun-bleached head)...


~ * ~


The men appeared to like me also.

(Naturally, I preferred hanging out with the kids. Their motives were simpler.)

Sometimes the middle-age male attention was fine. Several men who came to dine alone at various points in the night were perfect gentlemen; most were widowers, grateful to be fed (and conversed with) in genuine kindness. One left a tip that was nearly as much as the cost of his entree; as I stood (on aching feet) clearing his table, I felt a rush of gratitude.


~ * ~


Another man (divorced and in his 50s) required subtle distancing.

He told me I was "beautiful" and he asked my name... then tried to hold my hand. He kept flirting in a rather stomach-turning way...

So I told him to behave himself. I warned him that perceived indiscretions would be punished by motherly finger wagging, accompanied by his full name in a disapproving tone. I also cautioned him be polite since I had access to his food and was not afraid to enact revenge surreptitiously...

(He laughed -- heartily -- and mostly kept a respectful distance -- though he frequently stared as I moved through the restaurant, and I felt mildly disgusted by the time he finally left.)

It Had Hardly Rained for Weeks...

... and the earth had begun to break in jagged fissures, splitting patches of grass into miniature islands, creating thin canyons. (Whimsically, I found myself thinking about scale and perspective, remembering the firefly's arduous journey across my arm.) Driving on old country roads, black tar rose from gravel: forming boils that crackled beneath my tires... a sound reminiscent of popcorn ringing in an aluminum pan... or of wringing a sheet of plastic packing bubbles with my small childhood hands.

Last night, minutes after midnight: a deluge.



I scampered to my outdoor painting studio and pulled a canvas beneath my shirt to protect it from rain. I slid boxes of acrylics and liquid lead beneath the porch overhangs. Then, hearing hail, I darted back inside.

I shifted to the (enclosed) porch to comfort my anxious golden retriever... listening carefully for any signs of intensification: a howling train-whistle wind -- or sudden silence. Finding neither, I watched (delighted) as the darkened windows glinted with reflected light.



The flashes mounted until the night sky was rarely even dark, but caught instead in flickering suspension: like a jar of captured fireflies -- or a flurry of photographs beneath a dim streetlight.

This is What Inspiration Looks Like

Earlier this afternoon, intending to continue editing Fragments, I pushed the novella away (for what I imagined would be just a few minutes) so I could organize a nearby stack of poetry into the table of contents for another book.

I had been contemplating this second book for several weeks, because although I have occasionally written fiction, my primary literary conduit is poetry -- and has been for most of my life. Each time I've mentioned Fragments to someone who has known me for years, they show interest -- and invariably, they also ask when I'll publish another collection of poems. (I self-published my first chapbook, Candied Nothings, in 1999.)

So -- this afternoon -- intending only to select my favourite poems, I soon found myself laying them out in a possible order -- and simultaneously matching them with photographs I've taken over the past decade. Working on the graphic design, each facing spread became a post-it note scribbled with poem titles and quick sketches -- all arranged (and rearranged) on a window beside my desk.

Then: thinking about the trajectory of the poetry, as well as my intent to somehow use this work a symbolic companion to the novella, I brainstormed titles... and found that three titles obliquely reference rituals of the winter solstice. (Since I am still contemplating, I won't list the options here -- though I may announce a working title sometime in the next few weeks.)

Now, after a couple of delightfully-productive hours, I have the foundation for another book. It's time to turn off my laptop -- change into a flowing skirt -- and celebrate!

Status Update on my Fragments Novella -- And a Dash of Cinematic Aspiration

Tonight, I began reading Fragments from the beginning, continuing through the halfway point.

(I was startled to discover how objective I could be. I didn't feel like the novella's writer; I felt like its editor.)

At times, I was brutal with my cuts and revisions -- and deservedly so. But the process was also quite heartening; I have a couple stylistic issues to resolve -- and I'm aware that many vignettes must still be written to create a satisfying narrative -- but overall, I like the form and content.

Something I have not mentioned before (but that seems worth whispering now) is that while most of the sections are written in first-person narrative form, some feel better suited to a cinematic rendering. So -- a few of the vignettes are now emerging first as film scenes (with suggestions for camera angles and cuts) and are then being "translated" to fit the novella's structure.

I have never worked this way before, though my writing has always been imagistic. It seems to mark a distinct shift in my creative and professional focus: perhaps an extension of my rising interest in visual art that began a few years ago when I worked on performance installations at DNA... and then shifted away from theatre, into dance.

I don't know what will come of all this.

I've never written a film script before, and it sometimes feels a bit daunting to learn yet another lexicon. But I had never written a novella, either, before I began Fragments a few months ago... and Fragments seems to be progressing realatively smoothly -- so why not?

I Wrote "I Love You" in the Sand (as Titania Watched and Faeries Frolicked)

I wrote "I love you" in the sand.

You built our castle.



This is no crumbling edifice -- no dreamt midsummer night -- no tempest in a cup of herbal tea.

This is simplicity -- divinity -- instinct manifest.

This is the innocence of swing-sets by the slow rise of a waxing moon.



This night is a white kitten on the sidewalk by the park...

tofu and bean sprouts on the pavilion steps...

and an orange tiger lilly in a water-bottle vase.

Simple rural serenity: a few photographs

A few country images: moments of tranquil escape for my city friends...

An onion that has gone to seed:


Drying rye in a planter of concrete bricks:


New branches near the base of a tree:

Still Life with Fireflies (and Einstein)

The fireflies are swarming.

On my arms like preludes to approaching rain, I feel their tiny bodies ricochet.

Most dive and recover, arcing off my skin; others land, stunned, and crawl across follicles that are nearly half their size.

Everything is relative, it seems -- their obstacles are thin as filaments.

I strive to walk slowly...

I don't want to impede their flight.

The Angel of History

I have been folding my grandparents' clothing.

This is an intimate task; they died several years ago, but their clothing is still a corporeal presence. We have a closet full of fabric no one wears: Grandma's modest cotton sun-dresses... Grandpa's polyester slacks (some with wear spots at the knees)... a dozen pairs of white long johns (because he was thin and always cold). At the back of the closet: pairs of shoes that still hold imprints of their feet.



There is so much history here: a Christmas photograph from 1955... Grandpa's lunch bucket from the years he worked in the coal mine... Grandma's driver education card -- granted in 1939...

The objects they chose to keep are notable signs of what they valued -- but also interesting is what they didn't keep; neither grandparent wrote a journal, so I have no direct window into their most personal thoughts.



There is such history in this small town as well: the town where my great-grandparents immigrated and raised their families, where my grandparents had lived all their lives, where my father returned to raise his kids (and work with his sister, who has also lived her entire life in this town). My brother and I are the first generation to leave; though we're both home temporarily, he has spent the last decade in Austin, Texas, while I've been away at college and then off working in Toronto and New York.

I am humbled by how often I meet someone here who I don't remember. Often, they are people who knew me as a child... or who know my father or grandparents. Some simply recognize me from articles in the local newspaper, and they congratulate me on my academic and artistic achievements. When I tell them how I've failed -- perhaps not as often as I've "succeeded," but surely more spectacularly -- they dismiss failures instantly. What is most important to them is that I've followed my aspirations and trusted my own dreams.

When I find myself in conversation with old friends (even those I didn't know particularly well), the dialogue is so fulfilling. I am still thinking about my talk with Tom, who has worked at the local newspaper for more than five decades... I am thinking of the joy of running into Angela at the library -- and seeing how happy she is with her spouse and child. I am thinking of the waitress I worked with while I was in high school; her husband recently left her, and despite her obvious pain, she's much better off alone. I'm remembering my grocery store conversation with one of the "girls" (all must have been over 50) who sat at the gossip table at my restaurant, drinking coffee and fawning over the local "heartthrob" (who was also in his 50s). And then there's J.R., my closest high school friend -- who recently reminded me that we made a pact as kids to marry each other if we didn't find other partners by a certain age. (I laughed -- then thought about it -- then revised the age slightly upward -- but agreed that we'd probably do quite well together. So the marriage pact is valid...)



It is a joy to return to this small Midwestern town -- two and a half decades after I was born into it.

I see it differently now; I can appreciate what it is, rather than demeaning it for what it can never be.

For years now, intent on succeeding in the (cannibalistic) arts worlds of major cities, I have neglected my own heritage and the many friends and relatives and teachers who helped me grow into the woman I've become (and am still becoming). Yes, I'm still the urban artist -- but I'm also the Luddite who can read for hours in a clearing in the woods... the girl who -- at dusk last night -- went for my first (spontaneous) swim of the season: stripping off dance clothes and wading into the lake. I'm the same girl (woman) who -- more than 15 years ago -- waded into that same lake to rescue a frightened fawn from our overzealous terrier. As a child, I was so in touch with the rhythm of this land that wild sparrows would land on my fingers to eat birdseed.



Whatever else I do in the next months and years of my life -- regardless of what happens with my novella or the recent job offers from New York -- I want to cultivate this powerful tranquility: to be so serene that birds might choose to perch on me again.

Malleability and Ductility: An Urban Artist is Hugging Trees

At dusk last night, when I caught a glimpse of myself walking back into the house, after many hours outside (gardening, landscaping, laying bricks, etc) I felt three nearly-simultaneous thoughts:

1) My clothing was filthy (a paint-stained tee shirt with my high school track logo... over mud-spattered dance pants), and I was disheveled (hair half-coiled in humid tendrils... a streak of mud where I'd pushed back falling bangs)
2) I looked tired -- but young -- and very happy
3) My friends and colleagues in New York would not recognize me here

~ * ~

Actually, that last thought/feeling isn't true.

Some of my closest New York friends would be happy to see my windswept country splendor.

One of my favourite friends in the city is originally from Vermont; she'd love to see me so relaxed, and I think she'd find this rural life delightful. Another friend would also understand: some months ago, he left NY for a more peaceful Connecticut life (inspired by thoughts of grassy yards and simple canine companionship). An East Village choreographer/filmmaker (who summers in the Hamptons) would empathize. Two Brooklyn friends -- an exquisite dancer/choreographer/puppeteer and an innovative musician -- would be thrilled to see me living so holistically. And two similarly brilliant friends/colleagues -- one a writer, the other a theatre director and video artist -- would understand completely.

~ * ~

I shouldn't fault my colleagues -- I'm the one who cannot recognize myself.

(Is this muddy country girl the same woman who lived in New York?)

Just last October, I worked at City Center -- calling the cues for Christopher's magnificent dance as I crouched in the wings off-stage right. Last November, I was giddy for David's show at the Brooklyn Academy of Music -- slipping seamlessly through corridors with my backstage pass. And I never imagined I would tour as I did. Memories of those months in New York are staggering; I accomplished things so grand I had little time to dream before they morphed from chimera to (transient) reality.

~ * ~

The heights of those achievements made the undertow quite hard.

I was freelancing for so many different companies that I felt I spent more time commuting between meetings than actually working. Some of the companies paid me well... others couldn't pay me at all (but I chose to work with them for the inspiration they sparked)... another intended to pay decently but later didn't (as their finances became strained by other starving artists). I felt pulled in incongruous (and irreconcilable) directions. And I was drowning -- financially, creatively, and existentially.

~ * ~

And now?

I've resurfaced.

I'm breathing... laughing... singing... writing... reading... sketching... dancing.

I'm living.

And I feel ready to live.

Five New "Fragments"

I've just posted five chapters of Fragments:
* Magnolias
* The Musical Term for the Process by which Out-of-Phase Elements Slowly But Deliberately Come into Synchrony
* Entrainment
* The Front Moves Through
* Then

All can be read on my website (on the main page for the novella): Fragments of an Intended Life, Whispered to an Absent Lover.

The Front Moves Through

Over the last day (and night), a powerful storm forged new elements of the Midwestern landscape. My family’s home emerged unscathed, but the wind was awe-inspiring: a raw, sustained assault.

Yesterday morning, while I was upstairs writing, a branch snapped off the locust tree and struck the window, near my desk. The wind held it there, pressed to the glass, for more than a minute until the gust abated and the branch dropped to the twig-littered grass two stories below.

This morning appears gentler but reserves chaotic intent. The dank air is unnervingly dense; the sky: an eerie blend of rust and grey.

Birds are colliding with our windows at a startling rate. Are they simply blown off course by the wind? Or so disoriented by the rigors of mating season that they dive headfirst into their own reflection, entranced by themselves in another’s guise?

This storm – literally and allegorically – reminds me of another one that passed last year, while I was staying in Toronto with a man I loved; that night became the basis of a couple chapters in Fragments, the novella I’m writing…

(I may post those chapters soon…)

Before Caffeine, a Fledgling Chirps

This morning, I poured boiling water into my bodum and walked outside while the coffee steeped.

Barely cognisant (pre-caffeine), I walked barefoot in the bright sun.

And then I heard a distinctive fledgling chirping... from a low branch of a shrub... and found this precious little bird just inches from my hand.

Delightful.

Catharsis

Last night, after a domestic frustration (the cause of which I will tactfully leave vague), I laced up a pair of old jogging shoes in an angry huff, choosing (against prevailing instincts) not to slam the door as I left.

Striding North through overgrown grass (iPod and travel-size speakers in tow), I kept marching past the pond where I had intended to sit: too frustrated by the incongruity between my distress and its tranquil nature. So instead, I kept walking... until I reached the clearing in the pines.

I broke apart the tranquil dusk with (ironic) Nirvana.

I flung myself into the humid air, landing momentarily on fallen pine needles, then launching again (and again) until I began to feel calm.

In that liminal place (between life and art), I began to notice the remarkable height of my leaps... the grace of my landings... the fluid contortions of my spine... and the openness of my hips.

And with that awareness, the anger dissolved. The dance began.

Thoughts on Artistic Inspiration -- and Hunger -- and Advocacy

I am writing a series of articles about the sources of my inspiration: the people and companies that have shaped my artistic vision.

I have a rather eclectic aesthetic... so writing about inspirations is an inherently interdisciplinary task. I intend to touch upon contemporary dance, interdisciplinary text/image collaborations, performance art, writing, and film. Geographically, I intended to focus on two of the cities where I recently lived and worked: Toronto and New York. (Occasionally, I will venture outside of these geographic boundaries -- especially when writing about film, which is a migratory art.) For the most part, I'll omit high-profile influences who have well-established funding structures; I'm more interested in writing about early- and mid-career artists: people whose work I have seen live (not just in photographs or archival videos), and many of whom I have been fortunate to work with in some capacity.

~ * ~

I feel it's important for me to articulate what inspires me -- and then distill that inspiration -- to see if I can apply my passion for the arts to another field -- perhaps one that will place me above the poverty line (for the first time in my adult life). I am thinking seriously about graduate school in 2008, and there are several fields that interest me; I think writing may clarify my choice.

But I also have a pragmatic motive, and I want to make it quite overt. I want to celebrate gifted artists who -- despite pathetic underfunding -- manage to create inspiring work. While I lack the financial resources to be a "patron," my voice is unfettered; I hope (perhaps naively?) that my advocacy might increase awareness of their work. And even if the impact is negligible, it is still an impact. And if someone reads about a choreographer in my blog and then supports her/him by attending a performance (or slipping a small donation into an envelope for any of the artists who so desperately need the support) then my words will help a hungry dancer afford to eat.

~ * ~

I'll begin with a post about Susanna Hood, a very talented Toronto dancer/choreographer.

(Posts about other artists will gradually follow, over several weeks.)

Perhaps 'Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely' -- But Could Barack Obama Alter this Trend?

Yesterday afternoon, I read a long New Yorker article ("The Conciliator" by Larissa MacFarquhar) about Barack Obama's character and political style. The link had been forwarded by a Canadian friend who now assists a Member of Parliament -- but who also has a strong background in the arts; this friend's instincts (on art -- and politics) have often been deeply insightful. So it was with great curiosity that I began to read about Obama -- and my curiosity soon turned to delight.

I hesitate to write this (since in reality, hope and politics are deeply incongruous), but for the first time in my eligible voting life, I feel excited about a political candidate who is actually a serious contender for President. (As much as I appreciated Nader in 2000, I voted for him in idealistic protest, not political strategy.)

I rarely think of "morality" as a defining qualifier for political candidates; mostly, I have taken the corruption in stride -- knowing that many American political leaders will exploit power for their personal gain, with little regard for their constituents (who are either too disillusioned to track news of political debauchery -- or too preoccupied with their daily drowning: struggling to feed their families as they live month-to-month without emergency savings or basic health insurance).

I cannot fault Americans who see this and choose not to vote. Political debates can be uniquely depressing: white male millionaires in tailored suits with ivy-league educations pretending to know what America is -- with no real understanding of what life in this country actually feels like for the majority of us.

In this context, politically apathy seems like a sane coping mechanism. Nevertheless, it is a deeply unacceptable one.

Change is long overdue. It's time to embrace postmodern patriotism. Let's dare to really love our country -- and love it through honest appraisals of its faults and determination to reshape its future.

Let's elect someone who understands the principles on which this country was founded -- and who can reach humbly toward representatives of different political inclinations to ensure our country grows closer to its founding ideals.

-------------------------

(Photo credit: Caricature accompanied a brilliant article in the Economist.)