litbitch

jesus says, "shut the fuck up"

So you may have heard about the book My Stroke of Genius. I was introduced to it almost a year ago on Fresh Air.  If you'd like to go right to the source, you can just click on over.
But here's my take.
So this neurologist had a massive stroke and, with the help of her mother et al, is now completely recovered.  That's the least interesting part of the story.  Her stroke attacked the language center of her brain, and most of her recovery was centered on communication skills, speech, etc.  But before the rehabilitation started, while her right brain was utterly dominant, even exclusive, she experienced a state that most would describe as enlightenment.  Without language, there was no delineation.  Without the power to name things, the recognition of the uniqueness of things vanished.  Without the other, she had no self, no ego.  She experienced, continually, her connection to the world and everything in it.  She was in a state of utter bliss.  So much so that she fought rehabilitation and reconciled her return to the world of intellect only if she could hang onto the ability to return to that place of peace, oneness, and selflessness. Astonishingly, she managed to do it.  She returned to her career, wrote this book, and continued her investigations of the workings of the human brain, as well as participating in the myriad petty concerns and stresses of the quotidian, but says that whenever she wants or needs it, she can simply turn off her right hemisphere.  She can tell her brain to shut the fuck up and be truly present and aware and part of the world. 

Religion is a right hemisphere story.  Enlightenment, nirvana, being saved, seeing the light, whatever your religion calls it - these are just different ways of describing the same thing: letting go of the analytical part of the brain.  For me, this is more proof that our higher power is simply our connection to everyone and everything, and our ability to transcend is simply our ability to let go.  I'm sure some religious people might find her experience disheartening.  The possibility that deep, spiritual peace is simply the deactivation of neurons or receptors or whatever might seem unglamorous, dull, utterly technical and lacking in magic.  To me, it is one of the most hopeful, inspiring things I've ever heard.  I don't do religion.  I'm not a scientist, but I'm a big fan of logic (too much so, in fact, ironically contributing to my resistance to achieving the non-magical, elevated state I seek).  And knowing that peace, happiness, presence is simply a matter of stopping the words, as difficult as that has proven to be, thrills me.  I do love the philosophy of secular Buddhism, and it has helped me more than I can express, but when it comes down to it, the understanding that suffering comes from grasping and clinging, that we are all connected, etc, etc, pales in comparison to feeling it.  I have, for a few seconds at a time, on good days, or at least I've come close.  But I want more. I want the non-wanting. I want it like I want 77 degrees, an ocean, and sunshine.  I want it like I want true, passionate, everlasting love. And I like the idea that I don't have to be special, or devoted, or a believer of any kind, to achieve that. Right now, I'd be happy to give up my reliable, supportive, destructive brain to get it.  Fortunately, I won't have to.  I just have to teach it how to listen when I tell it to shut the fuck up.  Or get hit with the perfect stroke, which, in all honesty, is probably just as likely.

Stiffed

Susan Faludi's exhaustive examination of the desperate state of the American man, Stiffed, connected, surprisingly, to one of my favorite recent topics: obsessive self-disclosure.  Her conclusion, in large part, is that without a common purpose, a sense of community, a shared goal, men are left with the dregs society has provided as a replacement: consumption.  In the absence of something to create, we consume.  Fame, beauty, money become goals rather than pleasant by-products and are, necessarily, unfulfilling. 
And here we are back at facebook, where commenting on one's life, displaying pictures of oneself and one's activities, in short showing, becomes more important than doing.   Kids are more likely to say they want to be famous than describe what they might do to become so.  Yahoo "news" and the tabloids are full of information about people who are famous for being famous.  While I am optimistic about the work that was put into Obama's campaign (however I feel about the blind sycophancy that sometimes accompanied it), and the moves toward local food, abstaining from the purchase of new products, and active environmental responsibility, the culture at large pushes us toward filling the hole with stuff and image.  What we look like, how we describe ourselves, what we are "a fan of" or how we feel is more important than what we do.  Even non-doing, meditating, sitting, isn't real unless it's in a facebook update.  I'm condemning myself as much as anyone with this; when bored at work I seek continual validation of my clever statements on that goddamn "social networking" site.  I'm just struck by how everything I've been investigating lately, everything that annoys me, excites me, scares me - it all connects.  And the solution, again and again, seems to be putting the wallet away, digging in the dirt, paying attention to what I do, engaging with the world, and, maybe just a little bit of shutting the fuck up.  Hey-yo.

hibernation prep

Hey kids!

Imagine this entire post in an upbeat, kindergarten teacher tone of voice! with lots of upward inflection! i can't succumb to the exclamation point demon for the whole post, so help a girl out!

god, that's exhausting

speaking of exhausting

Winter has, finally, unequivocally, come.  But it has come without brutality.  It's 16 degrees and sunny - brisk but beautiful.  We had our first real snowstorm last night, and now the streets are clean and white and pure.  It won't last.  It will get grey and colder and cruel (update - Sunday - 5 degrees and gray - yes I changed the spelling).  I like planning, and winter requires some hardcore planning, especially if you fear cold and the absence of sun-on-skin as I do. 

1) Put on some makeup, pile up your hair, and at least try to do somethin with what you got there.

I know you feel like a slug, and you've gained (insert weight here) pounds since the first day the thermometer dropped below freezing, but suck it up.  I have learned, from watching What Not to Wear (the British version, years ago, I was maybe a wee bit addicted; this may be why I gave up television) that looking good makes you feel good!  Many of you (can you call a fraction of 7 readers "many"?) may not need this superficial boost.  Maybe your outward appearance has no influence on your inward exuberance, and fuck you very much Mr/Ms Spirituallyadvanced C. Perfect.  But we all know I have issues, in this case body image issues, so I can speak from personal experience.  Seriously, folks, if I go more than a week solid in bulky jeans and a bulky sweater I start to feel like a middle-aged midwestern woman (wait...).  If you're a woman (or a man) who shaves your legs, pick up that razor at least twice a month, even if you're the only one who'll know.  Hide a sexy dress under those layers.  Put some color on those painful, chapped lips.  Find an excuse to dress up, even if it's just for a play at the militantly grungy Bedlam, a drink a the BLB or a kitchen-based birthday party. 

And while we're on socializing...

day of the dead

Autumn (which hit briefly over a month ago, and is slated to return next week) blindsided me with thoughts, or, rather, visceral impulses of Prophet.  Somehow mild, cool weather has brought her back to me more than anything recently.  Probably because last fall was when I neglected her least, worried about her most, and went out of my way to spend as much time with her as possible.  I left work one day this September and thought? felt? that I'd better get home and let Prophet out before rehearsal that night.  A few weeks ago I had, after nearly a year without it, the expectation of her greeting me as I unlocked the door - a door she never laid eyes on.  I even braced myself to block her exit when she inevitably ambled up for a kind word, a petting, and a little freedom.  After listening to a run of the mill, probably annual, day of the dead fluff piece on NPR yesterday, amidst cleaning and cooking for the post-show gathering later that night, I decided to make a little shrine for her.  I have a giant wooden file cabinet sitting in the middle of my guest room, so I removed the box of crap parked there, and replaced it with two pictures of Prophet, her urn, a rose, a candle, and a plate of carrots (she would have preferred meat, but I don't have any, and she did love carrots).  It made me a little sad, but I liked the ritual.  I don't really believe that she came back and hung out.  I don't really believe that she's anywhere now, except in our deathless love and memories of her, but I am thankful for the existence of ceremonies that allow each of us to acknowledge and honor the little lives (so many little lives; beautiful tiny sparklers we are) and their impact.  I liked knowing that other people were celebrating the lives of their loved ones in a similar way at the same time. I don't care that many of them would consider my little girl unworthy of such an honor.  Their judgment is outside the frame of this experience.  I soaked up the invisible community of love and loss and gratitude.  Definitely worth a few tears.

social interaction for the anti-social

I did go out Saturday.  Got Philip to join me at a remount of Mortem Capiendum, the show I most regretted missing at fringe.  Really enjoyable.  If anyone in the Twitties still reads this, I highly recommend you make the easy trip out to Bedlam, our former Fringe Central (sigh) and check it out this weekend. Lovely time with Philip, as usual.  Poor libertarian has a rough time in pre-election season.

The colder weather has at least one advantage: occasionally riding the bus with Bill Stiteler in the morning.  When the meetings become more frequent, we'll probably retreat to our books & ipods after the initial niceties, but today we hadn't seen each other in a while and it was nice to catch up.  Though I am partial to out of towners during fringe, I often form one or two new or better bonds with locals.  It was Philip two years ago, and this year I fell for the Stitelers.  You need only check out the provided links to get an idea of Sharon & Bill's awesomeness, individually and as a couple.  They're even better in person.  And they live on my very block.  Coolness, indeed.

happy new year!

In the spirit of the season, I am renegotiating the terms of my relationship with myself and the world.  The sit-down is going well.  I won't bore you with the play by play.  Eyes are open; things are good.  More life to you all.

adrift: lessons from the Fringe

Every year, fringe teaches me something.

This year, the lessons are finally settling in.  The emotional high of this fringe, coupled with the free time I now have on nights and weekends, have left me - what was that? oh, right - unmoored.  With no other reasonable recourse, I've been forced to face reality. Again.

I more or less forgot to take pictures this year.  I didn't show up in the official slideshows and appear in very few friends' photos.  My avatar didn't even make it onto the website.  Other than the program and the mandatory button, I've got no memorabilia.  Whenever I hint at wanting to indulge in stories of my fringe experience, I've been met with no enthusiasm.  While all of these non-events annoyed or upset me at the time, they've all been priceless lessons.  Vanity zapped! Pride crushed!  I've got nothing against sins as such, or rather I don't think of them as sins, not having the Judeo-Christian mindset.  They bug me only insofar as they keep me from living how I want to live and being who I want to be.  Once again (damn zoe; we are so tired of hearing this): let it go. For me, having access to recordings, notes, photos, and other memorabilia is a way of trying to grasp onto what's passed, instead of moving on. Blow it  into the ether.  Because there is no other choice for me.  I spent much of the 10 days after fringe either icky or angry.  Because I was feeling the hangover of the emotional buzz.  Well, no.  That's only part of the story.  The hangover doesn't last long; the withdrawal and subsequent longing can last forever, if you let it.  Fuck that.  Every second I spend dwelling on the past or anticipating the future is a second taken away from what's in front of me. Philosophy aside, another acknowledgement: the moments, feelings, connections, experiences that have meant the most to me can't be documented, at least not in an tangible way.  I'm having trouble even describing them here, so I won't attempt it.  A reenactment will always fall short of, or otherwise far from the mark of, the moment.  So why try.  Better to find new moments.  Better to be awake and ready for the infinite possibilities to come - the seconds upon minutes upon hours of the endless potential of my glorious, everyday life.

Here's the harder, or newer, lesson, and it's related to the last post.   

Burn yourself completely.  It's a Zen thing.  I'm going to let that sit as is, because I love the phrase.  I can't say I truly did that, but I did sizzle a bit.  And that's a skip in the right direction.  Or rather, pleasantly directionless.  Adrift and on fire.

unmoored

Strange place right now.  Not bad, but dark.  I blame a combination of things:

Having free time for the first time this year.  With the exception of the "holiday season" 2007-2008, first free time since June or July of last year.  Like all these things - my physical and spiritual health, my sense of self, the organization of my home and career, my academic life, have been hovering with centripetal force and now, with stillness, are scattered at my feet, waiting for me to clean up.  They're not hounding or bullying me, mind you.  Just sitting and waiting at the periphery.

The song Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens

The book House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski

I don't know that I can really delve into the whys of the latter right now, or ever, so I'll just deal with the tangentials - the relatively easy things both works of art are bringing up for me.

I bought Come on Feel the Illinoise months ago, but, with the exception of the drives to and from hell Rochester, where I contained my music to the radio, in the (successful) hopes of pleasing my traveling companion, I haven't driven much at all this year.  When I've been in my car, I've been running lines with a tape recorder or half-absorbing the white noise of NPR.  Haven't spent much time at home except to sleep, and Sufjan's isn't, for the most part, an MP3 while biking kind of album.  So it's been sitting.  But I made its acquaintance again during fringe, and have been truly haunted by this song ever since.  The "in the morning" harmony caught my attention the first time I heard it, but I ignored the lyrics until last week, and now it strikes me as one of the most beautiful, achingly beautiful songs of recent memory.  More of a perfect, sweetly tragic short story with poetry and underscoring.  And death.

treatment for postfringeitis

  treatment for postfringeitis must address the emotional, psychological, and physical state of the patient

1. sleep. sleep every chance you get. sleep at your job, sleep on the shoulder of the passenger next to you on the bus, but sleep.  oh, and none of that tylenol pm or drunken pass-out sleep.  really, haven't you abused your body enough?
2. really, haven't you abused your body enough?  pick your poison, you know what I'm talking about
3. exercise; no, it may not be as much fun as racing to your next show, dancing at First Avenue, or engaging in sexual activities with the transient partner of your choice, but trust me, the endorphins help
4. shower, for god's sake; how long has that "I like to watch" tattoo been on your body?
5. eat restorative foods - like pre-Strongbow apples and pre-pinot grapes.  i swear, you can find them at your local grocery store.  sometimes they're even sold on the street.
6. meditate, hang out with non-fringe friends, go camping, do whatever best helps you accept that life outside of fringe is indeed good
7. don't join the circus!  traveling fringers are warm and fuzzy, but do not follow them home!  they are here to inspire, entertain, and titillate, but they excrete a drug that cannot be trusted. do not fall prey to their foreign wiles. say goodbye and befriend them on facebook, but stop there.
8. along those lines, your friends don't suck, your city doesn't suck, and your life doesn't suck. you are not artistically bankrupt and you are not trapped (at least no more than you were on July 30th).  do not plan a move to Boulder or Toronto to find yourself, find inspiration, or find your fringe crush.  As in AA, all major decisions should be delayed for at least a year.  Sober up, then reassess.
9. don't write a one person show about your traumatic personal/sexual/family life so that you can travel the fringe circuit in '09 (this has nothing to do with your health, it's just a personal plea)
10. buy yourself a little something nice - flowers, a CD, a new haircut...
11. look at the pictures, post the pictures, tag the pictures, but do not print the pictures.  they belong in the amorphous ether with all the fantasies you've created
12. read a book to reopen your eyes to the infinite possibilities outside of the indy theatre world, expose you to real tragedy, or simply occupy your mind
13. read/listen to the news.  Bernie Mac died! So did Solzhenitsyn! Putin is trying to restore the USSR! starting in Georgia! (no, not that one...)
14. be thankful, be grateful, be happy, and let it go.  you've got your whole life ahead of you, and it's a beautiful day.

all the hard work is rewarded...

So this is the 3 plays in one week week.  Close one play, open another, and start rehearsing a third.  Going okay so far, but Saturday is the real test.  Haven't seen any of my friends in weeks, still haven't read a book since January, will have done 4 plays in 6 months by the end of June, blahdeblahblah.  I'm enjoying myself, really, I just need a break.  And, apparently, a reward.

So my friend Jason IMs me on Facebook one night (yes, we are so too old for both that verb and that proper noun) and says I'm going to hate him even more than I already do (because he got to see Kids in the Hall (I, of course was performing for their MN show and will be for their Green Bay show) and won't stop talking about how ingenious it was), because he might be going to see Tom Waits in Phoenix. (How's that for a sentence to kick off your day?)

Tom Waits? touring? Tom Waits, the number one musician alive that I want to see perform?  Tom Waits, the genius?  Tom Waits, the American treasure?

I looked up the Phoenix date, found out I was performing, and told Jason not to utter another word, written or otherwise, about it.

But I couldn't let it go.  The tour begins June 17th and ends July 5th, hitting some of the most unlikely cities in the country, and with the possible exceptions of Phoenix (gag), St. Louis (not a fan), and Columbus (why not Indiana, then?), all in the South.  Why?  Tom explains all here: