The Petition for Tolerance on Route 51

The petition to promote tolerance on Route 51 is now online.

If you care about issues of prejudice and acceptance, please sign it -- even if you are outside the Central Illinois area. Showing opposition to prejudice is important, wherever you live -- and I would appreciate your support.



A note on inspiration: This photo of Eva Kor and me was taken on April 7th, during a visit Mrs. Kor made to Pana High School to talk about her experience of the Holocaust. Mrs. Kor was a young girl when she and her family were taken by train to Auschwitz; she and her twin sister were separated from the rest of the family, and the two girls were allowed to live -- as human test subjects for the sadistic Dr. Mengele.

Mrs. Kor and her sister ultimately survived the Holocaust -- and over time, Mrs. Kor began to tell their story publicly. She also formed an organization to connect surviving "Mengele twins" to each other; that group became the CANDLES Museum and Education Center (Children of Auschwitz Deadly Lab Experiments Survivors). She remains a strong advocate for human rights and -- perhaps surprisingly -- an advocate for forgiveness.

Mrs. Kor suggested that concerned citizens in our town should create a petition to show that the prejudice on Route 51 does not represent our community's values. This petition is -- in many ways -- in honour of her bravery and her decades of human rights activism. And she was kind enough to be its first signatory.

On My Knees: a "public divorce ceremony" by Cathy Gordon

A quick heads-up for anyone in Toronto: Cathy Gordon, a close friend and colleague, will be crawling across the city -- on her hands and knees -- on Monday, August 13th.



Cathy is a very gifted artist, and this should be a particularly interesting project. All I'll say for now is that I'll be there -- and I encourage anyone reading this in Toronto to see it.

For more information, please visit her website -- www.cathygordon.com -- and check out the article in today's Toronto Star newspaper: An Extremely Public Divorce.

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(Photo is from Cathy's website.)

The Simplicity of a Child's Acceptance

I had of the loveliest couple of hours this afternoon, sharing a lingering patio coffee with a sweet friend... and then an even lovelier hour or so, meeting his young son for the first time and frolicking in the park.

My friend's son chased pigeons -- with great glee and little success -- and we all howled with laughter. Later, our talks turned to dragons and unicorns... the shapes of planes and helicopters... and the intricate beadwork of a kitschy Chinatown frog.

My favorite moment was one of the simplest. After the pigeon-chasing, as we walked toward the street, the boy took his father's hand. A moment later, beaming, he reached his other tiny hand toward me.

We walked for blocks like that, talking and laughing. Later this evening, walking home on my own, I remembered my friend's smile and his son's giddy laughter -- and felt such gratitude for this day.

"I Drew a Map of Canada, with Your Face Sketched on it Twice..."

I sit in full lotus on the grimy station floor, little white headphones in my ears... humming Joni Mitchell as I wait to board the London train.

I feel happy.




I am still leading a surreal life -- hovering between nations and suitcases (linen skirts and poetry). I feel content here, in this state of suspension -- more content to hover than to land.

But it seems I am landing -- gracefully, like a weightless dancer -- in the second land I've grown to love; Ariel has asked me to return to Toronto in October -- to love and live with him -- and I have agreed.




For several months now, I have been thinking about the nature of love -- feeling gratitude for my loves (past and present). I've grown so much with them, and in such unexpected ways -- just as I have also grown (in different but harmonious ways) in the spectrum of my solitude.




I'm agnostic, with no desire for illusions of god, fate, or destiny. I do not believe in "soul mates" -- cannot imagine that each person has only one partner they are somehow "meant" to find. I simply believe in the love, friendship, and trust that two people can mutually construct over months and years. I believe in passion -- and (atheistic) transcendence.




And I know of at least two men who feel like part of me -- who I love more deeply than my jagged tongue can say. Each man is so much of what I want (close friends... romantic lovers... intuitive artists... trusted companions...) and so much more than I had really hoped to find.




There is no right choice here -- and no wrong one.

The fallacy is in the choice itself: the insistence of monogamy, the dichotomy of "lover" and "friend," and the fear that imposes limits on ineffable love.




To the one I couldn't choose: I love you. I do. And I'm sorry...

"His Eye is on the Sparrow"

We intersect at Bloor and Yonge: an accident on the corner. We watch medics pull bodies from broken glass. I try not to stare.

Fingers light on my wrist, you guide me down a quiet street. The barista greets you by name; you carry our lattes out the back, smiling over your shoulder from the fire escape.

I lean against the café wall beside the vent from the roaster (gentle smoke, deeply aromatic, arousing as any scent) and watch you pull a moleskin journal from your bag.

I am squinting in the sun as you recite Catullus – a translation you wrote this morning. Two millennia incarnate in your voice: gentle as the sparrow you tease from my breast, pecking wistful hands…

In your measured cadence, your sonorous voice, I hear us make love: rhythm of tides… ductility of gold… spinning of stars over hemispheres...

(I hear you moan, one octave below: content in my taste and your sweat.)

You’re closing the notebook, your hand touches mine, and we fly.

On Hanlan's Island, a Short Ferry Ride from the City

Yesterday afternoon, I headed out to the Toronto Islands with five colleagues and friends from Perpeual Motion Theatre Company. (They're a brilliant young troupe from Minneapolis; I'm stage managing their show at the Toronto Fringe Festival, and I'd like to encourage anyone reading this to please see it -- and to write a review on the bulletin board at eye weekly...)





While waiting for the ferry, Derek pulled out a pocketknife and began whittling...




And Mark pulled out his notebook, showing me the pages for the virtual rock / paper / scissors tournament that he recently hosted on his blog, Enriched White Bread...




I watched the boat's wake through a small porthole...




... watched small sailboats through tree branches...




... and smiled as I saw the CN Tower through the trees and summer smog.



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(The first photograph -- the gorgeous underwater shot -- was taken by Avye Alexandres, who documented an earlier production of "The Depth of the Ocean" in her fantastic photo blog.)

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.

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.

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.)