tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62738072367604006452024-03-13T13:37:37.534-07:00Solipsistic RevueAn experimental place of rambling, prose, and performance reviews.Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-14121565826757435022012-10-10T23:05:00.001-07:002012-10-10T23:05:39.301-07:00BreakthroughI've passed through it once again.<br />
It won't be the first time and won't be the last.<br />
This time, it seemed to drag out, linger and leave its stench.<br />
I have to remember, I am a fighter.<br />
This is not the beginning or the end.<br />
I can now think clearly, focused and enjoy what is.<br />
What.....IS.<br />
Not was, not will be.<br />
No more revisionist history.<br />
No more fantastical futures.<br />
To be present and to practice gratitude and patience.<br />
I can think of nothing more that I want to do.<br />
<br />
<br />Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-72028423493147866132012-04-06T20:30:00.002-07:002012-04-06T20:53:17.100-07:00Work to WelfareLast night I performed <i>Work to Welfare </i>with Living Stages theatre troupe. The show, a composite of experiences from the troupe was presented to the community as a forum play based on Augusto Boal's Theatre of the Oppressed. <div><br /></div><div>The rehearsal process was a bit grueling- emotionally speaking. We started by sharing stories about ourselves, our families, our loved ones. Each story about unemployment, the lack of work, food stamps, homelessness and more fueled our work into creating this play. The piece examined the oppression that can happen with families and relationships while people are struggling to find work. </div><div><br /></div><div>The characters were so real, yet they were not rooted firmly in our stories. In an age when the recession has impacted everyone in some way, we were looking for ways to create characters that were relevant to struggles that might be particularly salient. </div><div><br /></div><div>Breadwinner mothers, long term unemployed father, younger generation saddled with debt, unable to escape the trap or fulfill childhood dreams, grandma who can't afford to live alone on social security, the sister who IS successful and thus should be point of comparison for other failures, friends with privilege and parental help who don't have to worry about paying rent and working. </div><div><br /></div><div>These characters created the play. The play was about the shame, humiliation, depression, loneliness and all the gamut of emotions that come with struggling to find work. We live in a culture where work is tied into our identities. We ask, "what do you do?" not who are you. Work defines us and can control our life, creating a hierarchical system of haves and have nots. </div><div><br /></div><div>The play hit very close to home. Sometimes too much for my liking, but like any strong art, it should. I knew that I could not be feeling alone in this. Of course, after months of sharing with the troupe, I knew that I was not alone. That others had similar stories. The same themes kept coming up, again and again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Performing last night reminded me of the power and beauty of Theatre of the Oppressed. The audience was not only a receptive audience but a willing participant in creating a dialogue. Many interventions happened in the play that were interesting, touching and alternative. Theatre of the oppressed proposes new realities and alternatives to situations--it gives the audience and the performers a chance to "rehearse for real life". Within the living, breathing form of theatre, we are able to comprise these experiences and thoughts and create a new, living, breathing thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>TO reminds me that Reality is not static. It's malleable, just like people, just like our thoughts. Though the world and many of us are stubborn, sometimes it is only because of our ignorance or lack of foresight that we think otherwise. </div><div><br /></div><div>Performing last night made me feel engaged and alive--and most of all, inspired! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-13654228564893145982012-04-02T21:51:00.002-07:002012-04-02T22:03:02.545-07:00ImpostorTrains howl in the middle of the night, reminding me of the emptiness in the city. <div>The sun comes up, just barely as I rise and I get the feeling that something isn't quite right. </div><div>I am not sure what this distress could be, other than a massive unsettling and lack of attachment. </div><div><br /></div><div>My heart is with a person, but not with a place. I feel torn on my decisions. </div><div>Hindsight is 20/20, things were always better in the past and certainly in our future, but the present tense brings so much pensive gloom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Portland reminds me of pensive gloom. It's a smart city that is perpetually grey. People come alive once the sun rises. People crawl out of their caves to live their lives once forgotten in a winter's past. The rain renews the green and the blue sky is better than any anti-depressant and these two dispositions mingle amongst the watery fronts, beards, beers and bikes to make a place. This place. Where I live.....</div><div><br /></div><div>I crave more sunshine and friends and art and culture. I crave a sense of belonging. </div><div><br /></div><div>BE-LONGING. </div><div><br /></div><div>to be </div><div><br /></div><div>longing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ask the universe for some peace and harmony. And some rest. Throw in some more blue sky too. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-17225710294327371462012-03-14T21:35:00.002-07:002012-03-14T21:45:16.777-07:00Alternative HIstoriesI can't help but wonder, what if I stayed?<div>Would I be happier?</div><div>What is this idea of happiness and success that I so long for?</div><div>Ideas that are so foreign to my complicated brain, I would need a passport to get there. </div><div>The definition confuses me and the feeling eludes me. </div><div>Time evaporates into pores relishing into sun stained souls. </div><div>Sometimes I feel too much and I long for days I can find peace. </div><div>Is someone interested in social justice ever at peace?</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to imagine a better world for myself-- for everyone. I think at the heart of the Occupy movement is the desire to see the change, be the change we wish to be--in this lifetime. To create alternative histories and radical futures that we possess with our bare hands. The ability to see our hard word lay the ground work for the pavement below us. To keep the sun rising everyday with our happiness and joy. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-6526033488481879562012-02-05T20:09:00.000-08:002012-02-05T20:14:55.117-08:00FamishedI saw <i>Famished</i> at Portland Playhouse a couple of days ago and was moved by the first piece of theatre I've seen that delves right into current, relevant issues with food. Some thoughts post-show: <div><br /></div><div>How does food control our relationships? (to ourselves and others)</div><div>How do food politics (dis)connect us to our communities?</div><div>What are the ethics of food production?</div><div>Can't afford local, organic. </div><div>Vegan</div><div>vegetarian</div><div>gluten free</div><div>meat eater</div><div>fast food</div><div>slow food</div><div>labels, choices</div><div>the hunger within</div><div>the depravity and excessiveness of food. </div><div>the pleasure and pain. </div><div>food and memory</div><div>food and culture</div><div>food and control</div><div>food and love</div><div>food and hate</div><div>body image</div><div>skinny</div><div>fat</div><div>disease</div><div>health</div><div><br /></div><div><b>How to nourish the mind and body, in a healthy, sustainable, viable, productive, affordable way? </b></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-60775265896823748332012-02-05T00:25:00.000-08:002012-02-05T00:58:25.531-08:00Geographic OrientationAfter being a "west coaster" for most of my life, and spending about 2 years on the east coast, only to then come back to a different part of the west coast, I am pondering the idea of geographic orientation. <div><br /></div><div>How does where one live affect their personality? Lifestyle? Outlook on life? I know for a fact that if I was born anywhere else than Southern California my life would be completely different. For example, diversity, and working class people were "normal" to me. My cousins from Michigan however, were literally shocked with the diversity and homelessness present in Socal. I am glad that I was born in such a diverse, enriching place. And now only because I have left that place, can I look at it objectively. I understand (now more so than ever living in Portland) the amazing high that comes along with constant sunshine, the benefits of diversity and the general laid back feeling that permeates Los Angeles' air. (I've heard many a NYer who comes to LA and complains that everything is 'so slow')</div><div><br /></div><div>Reflecting on my time on the east coast, I must say I am no expert. But also people claimed I would have a hard time with the "fast pace" in NYC and "east coast attitudes". What does that mean anyway? I did not have a problem adjusting to NYC. I was actually thankful for the fact that so many people enjoy working and getting things done in the city. I enjoyed people's honesty, heartache, pain and stress that parades itself across the whole city. The city is resilient and so are the people. The city and the people force you to hustle, to make it work. A study in perseverance and endurance. </div><div><br /></div><div>I miss the fast pace energy and diversity of NYC. And now I find myself in another place. West-East-West. ((Orientations made up for convenience, with a whole lot of meaning. Makes me think of the useless labels we ascribe to race, geography and sexuality. Exclusionary forces. ))</div><div><br /></div><div>Portland is very relaxed. Upon not being available for a meeting with a new acquaintance, I was told that he was hoping I was a "typical Portland slacker" with lots of free time during the week. Nope, definitely not one of those. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because I am getting to know people at work and in the theatre, I have rehearsed my own little geographic story. LA-NYC-PDX. Some people get more details than others, about what brought me to each place. With the consistent recitation, and reactions to my geographic journey, I wonder how much does a city thrive on its people? And vice verse? It's as if we should put down on job applications if we are a West Coaster or East Coaster. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have also gotten familiar with one particular reaction. "Why did you leave New York for <i>Portland?"</i> I get asked with an incredulous tone. I get asked this in such a way that eludes to my sheer idiocy for leaving "the center of the universe" for Portland, Oregon. Some people say it more politely, inferring that I went from one hip place to another and that I must be ok. </div><div><br /></div><div>The answer: A man. I moved for a man. Is that dumb? The feminist part of me feels uneasy with this answer every time I recite it. Not because I am ashamed, or not in love. But because it is the first time in my life that he has really affected my life decision. I made a choice to move. So far the choice has worked out better than expected. I am embracing the journey. Who knows where we will end up? SF? NYC? Stay in PDX? The good thing is I am open. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know a lot of people who have never left their hometown. They have no desire to leave what is safe. And now I know first hand, the sheer exhaustion and emotional toll of moving back and forth. But it can be thrilling. Sort of like an anthropologic study. A study of the self and the will to survive. To adapt to consistently changing environments. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know that during my stay here, Portland will be come a part of me. Just like the morsels of Los Angeles and NYC have ingrained themselves in my thoughts, my actions, my nostalgic daydreams. The thing about this is I can't quite put my finger on it. I can't exactly describe how place affects me, or why I miss a certain place. I do believe cities and people have a symbiotic relationship in which each are breathing in and out of each other, affecting and changing. I am just fascinated by the divide and thought process behind East coast and West coast. And yet, I intellectually understand there is a difference. </div><div><br /></div><div>How have you been affected by your geography?</div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-32045379026653943712012-01-22T13:56:00.000-08:002012-01-22T14:05:35.931-08:00Consistency in FluctuationBe consistent. Something I have long known that I needed to adopt, but seems hard to put into place. I like to think of myself as a wanderer, wonderer and nomad, but even those questionable labels need some stability in the real world. <div><br /></div><div>Creating routines in new places. Attacking new goals and failing and falling back only to move forward again. My discipline in running is proving faulty and time keeps slipping out of my hands like dissolved sand. </div><div><br /></div><div>How to create consistency in fluctuation? Changing jobs, changing cities, changing friends. The trite but true phrase, the only consistent thing in life is change permeates my current state. </div><div><br /></div><div>A will to determine the way things I ought to want to sought to be. </div><div>To be</div><div>is</div><div>me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking forward to the evolution of myself, looking back at the past with near-sighted nostalgia. Improving and living fully every step of the way. And most of all to be able to relax amidst the fluctuation. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-77165204087151538092012-01-13T18:47:00.000-08:002012-01-13T19:25:44.655-08:00Collapse, Wasteland and running through your fearsThis week has been a pretty good week. I am settling nicely here in Portland and finding my way to good things. I started rehearsing with Living Stages, a theatre of the oppressed based community theatre troupe. It feels so nice to be doing TO again. I feel a deep emptiness inside me that I am not working with youth or adults right now as a facilitator- something I want to change soon. In addition to getting back into TO, I also saw two remarkable, moving pieces of art this week. <div><br /></div><div>The first was <i>Collapse </i>at Third Rail Rep. I went to see their free dress rehearsal, and I was blown away by the acting skills! Last week I met a man who said, "there is a lot of New York in Portland". I initially wanted to scoff, but it seems to be true. There is such great theatre, beer, coffee, arts and culture here. Collapse was a play about, well, collapse. Both metaphorically and literally. The play takes place in Minnesota, where in 2007, the 35W bridge collapsed, killing 13 people. The play uses this event as its starting point, but doesn't mention the actual event until later in the play. The characters, a husband and wife seem to be having trouble conceiving a child. The husband hasn't gone to work in a month, and the wife is worried about getting fired. The hippie new-age sister from California moves in unexpectedly. Her entrance is memorable as she enters the house, much to her sister and brother in law's surprise, claiming "California is fucked! Like anal sex fucked! Not that that is bad or anything....". The sister has just lost her job at a non-profit, and been evicted from here apartment. The overtones of the biggest recession since the Great Depression almost acts as another character in the play. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later we find out that the husband was on the bridge while it collapsed. He has PTSD, doesn't want to talk about it, but is deeply troubled. The sister and husband get drunk while the wife is trying to salvage her job and not get fired from her law firm. After a series of strange and interesting coincidences, we find out that the husband was on the bridge during the collapse. He fell into the water, trapped by his car. He can't remember how he escaped. The wife was three months pregnant at the time and miscarried a week later. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the strange coincidences and some minor disasters (which are played very humorously!), the play ends with the couple having a frank talk about their issues. The play ended in such a powerful way, or shall I say line. </div><div><br /></div><div>The husband says, "How do we not collapse?"</div><div>Wife, "I am not sure we can. I think we need to learn how to fall together"</div><div><br /></div><div>The play's ending resonated with me strongly. Any relationship is bound to have its rough patches and I feel like this question is a valid one. The answer a superb motif on how to survive the rough times, together. </div><div><br /></div><div>The other amazing piece of art I saw was the documentary <i>Wasteland</i>. Wasteland focuses on Brazilian artist Vik Muniz and his trek back home to Brazil to create portraits of the "pickers" at Jardim Gramacho. Jardim Gramacho is a landfill where the pickers carefully go through all the trash to take out the recycling. The movie is not so much about the artist as these characters at the landfill. They are beautiful, driven, interesting people. What fascinated me most was many of the women talking about how dirty and disgusting the work is, would often also say that it was honest work. They are happy to be there and not walking the streets of Copacabana. Muniz gets to know several of the pickers and creates multi-media portraits of them with the recycled materials. He then donates the proceeds of the art back to the models/pickers. The movie is interesting because class, politics, light skin/dark skin, sex, money and work are all multi-valent forces that make this movie very complicated. </div><div><br /></div><div>The movie brings up several issues-- is Muniz really helping these people? Does art help people? At the end of the movie we hear that most of the people had left Jardim Gramacho to pursue a better life thanks to the proceeds of Muniz's art. While I loved the film and I am so happy at the success of the art and for the people, I wonder who was left behind? Who is still there? Also, we find out Jardim Gramacho is closing this year, where will the workers go? The movie really made me think about how much art and social practice belong together. Do they have a place and how do they work together to create real change? Real, unalterable change, not a bandaid. This question often is in my mind. I love doing theatre of the oppressed and I know that in rehearsals seeing youth/adults SEE, VISUALIZE AND IMAGINE new futures can be radical and life-changing. But sometimes I feel like it is a dead-end path. You can't help everyone, you can't change everything. But on the other hand, there has to be people trying to change the world, offering what they can and doing what they can. </div><div><br /></div><div>Complacency is the enemy of resistance and social change. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am moving through the week feeling inspired with thoughtful questions and the desire to do something. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I have started running. One day, hopefully in the not-so-near future, I will participate in a sprint triathlon. There is a long story behind it, one that I would love to share if I can accomplish my goal. For now, I have started running. I am not in particularly good shape (an erroneous assumption people make, thin= in shape) and historically have hated running. This week I have made it to 1.5 miles. This is not amazing, but very cool considering on the spectrum of athleticism I am considered a couch potato. I enjoy running at night, when the air is crisp, the streets are empty and I can think and feel each footstep hit the ground. In a very De Cearteau-ian way, I am discovering the city more through my jogs. I've found new places, new parks, new adventures. The running seems to help my mental sanity while also creating a much needed physical space for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Moving into the week, I plan to stay focused and inspired. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-71998831445468540182012-01-09T21:03:00.000-08:002012-01-09T21:20:30.901-08:00Fissuresthe beginning<div>is near</div><div>who says you can't do anything</div><div>just try</div><div>sometimes I just want to be a kid again</div><div>not worry about any of this stuff</div><div>I got my food stamps today</div><div>I went to the store and pretended it was xmas</div><div>so much food</div><div>gluttonous and dirty </div><div>inhaling every breath of creativity</div><div>but transforming into abstract expression</div><div>desire still ranks #1, with confusion a close second</div><div>I must remember that life is not a race, but sometimes it feels like </div><div>I'm trapped. </div><div>I want to think outside of myself. </div><div>To take a vacation from my brain. </div><div>how to get a way from one's self?</div><div>how to move through one's self to another? </div><div>my heart is a home, with three locations</div><div>my head is a cabinet of ponderings</div><div>wandering and wondering</div><div>seeking and reaching</div><div>failing</div><div>utterly useless statements</div><div>that fall on the blank page like hard cement. </div><div>just give me something real. </div><div>what makes a person cry? </div><div>such a strange and mysterious thing tears are. </div><div>cleansing and absolving </div><div>working through that sadness</div><div>expelling. </div><div>I listen for the song to call to me. </div><div>wait my turn to enter. </div><div>believe in what each note tells me is true. </div><div>the music of life, always so sharp</div><div>sometimes not a chorus, but a solo. </div><div>rarely too, a collaboration. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-4685186044113783022012-01-02T12:47:00.000-08:002012-01-02T13:16:00.480-08:00Angels in America at Portland PlayhouseTony Kushner's play <i>Angels in America</i> is a must read for any theatre major. When I was in college, I remember hearing the hype over it. When it finally came time to sit down and read the play, I was fascinated by the characters, the interweaving of history and the psycho-magical aspects of the play. However, at the time of reading I was so curious to see it staged. My imagination took me so many places, but I couldn't quite see it. <div><br /></div><div> Angels in America, Part 1 at Portland Playhouse was close to perfect. The stage was mostly bare, with only essential props. The actors were astounding, moving and fierce and knew their characters well. The actor playing Roy Cohn even had a broken arm, something that didn't seem to detract from his performance in the least. The music was the part that could have been a bit better. The sound design was mostly of cliched 80's songs, that I felt did not agree with the intensity of the play. The play, while having humorous, magical moments, is a serious play. A play about the AIDS crisis, and homosexual life in New York City. But the play is about so much more and it is hard to describe everything that Kushner puts you through as an audience member. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the production at Portland Playhouse, Wade McCollum plays Prior Walter. McCollum, a wonderfully vibrant and versatile actor, is so moving as Prior. Prior, a gay man in New York City learns that he has AIDS. In the play, his boyfriend of 4.5 years leaves him while he is in the hospital sick, because he can't handle it. The scene in which Prior (McCollum) wakes up in the hospital bed, alone is chilling. The frightening sense of loneliness and longing that pervades the scene is palpable. The man he loves, his partner has left him--while he is sick --and is nowhere to be found. Louis' (the boyfriend) actions are egregious, but Noah Jordan plays him so well, that the audience almost has the slightest faint of sympathy for him. The whole play is wrought with death, mortality, longing, love, history, confusion and identity. Portland Playhouse's production did a wonderful job of taking this complicated play and keeping it honest. Even the most hated characters like Roy Cohn had an heir of charm. The actors, direction, and minimal stage affects proved affective and very moving.</div><div><br /></div><div>During the play, I am reminded of how many problems we still have today. The play takes place in 1985, but a lot of the issues are still omni-present. AIDS is killing everyone, not just gay men. Homophobia is still as present as ever, if not worse with the talks of 'equal rights'. History is the lingering ghost in our present and future, something we cannot deny. Angels in America is moving insofar that it asks the audience to get uncomfortable. Kushner does not shy away from sex, religion and politics, and brings it to the forefront of his plays and Portland Playhouse did a wonderful job of showcasing this very deep, intricate play into something real and palpable. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-50238443110165135772011-12-27T21:34:00.000-08:002011-12-27T21:53:39.736-08:00Winding down/Winding upThe holidays seem to slow everything down. Places are closed. People are busy. We are asked to reflect on the past year, make pledges for the new and enjoy our time with friends and family. Once again, I could not go home this year but had my first holiday with my partner and some friends. New friends, new places reminding me of old friends and old places. I suppose it really is about the company you are with, rather than where you are. <div><br /></div><div>A year ago, I wrote some <a href="http://solipsisticrevue.blogspot.com/2010/12/resolutions-i-will-surely-break.html">resolutions</a> or things I wanted to do in 2011. It is hard to read that list currently and see how abysmally I have failed. But failure is relative I suppose, and not only relative but very personal. I have dealt with some deep seeded feelings of failure this year. The good news is I did graduate, my thesis did not suck, I traveled a bit to Montreal and Toronto and the first half of the year I was practicing Spanish. In the summer, I went from not owning a bike, to riding to Coney Island, a trip that is 14 miles round trip. I know a few more words in French and Portuguese and I wrote more, performed more and was more active than any other year. So why the talk of failure? </div><div><br /></div><div>I still didn't get what I wanted. I wanted it all. I wanted a full time job, New York City and my long distance love. It was impossible and the universe knew it. I tried so damn hard. For two months straight, I beat myself up and drove myself crazy. The cooling my temper and worrying about money portion of last years resolution is sadly still way off mark. Some days are better, some days I feel like giving up. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>How can you accomplish everything you want when you don't have everything you need?</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Before I get too woe is me, I must do some privilege checking. I am pretty damn lucky. On good days, I can step outside of myself and see the wonderful world around me in all its beauty and decay. Most of the time I am short sighted and wonder why my life isn't better. Why can't I help others more? Sometimes the desire for internal change or the desire to change the world is so big, it turns happy thoughts into depressing insurmountable tasks. </div><div><br /></div><div>2011 had a lot of great things to it-- love, adventure, performance. It also had a lot of downs. Unemployment, massive debt, loneliness. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am not setting any more resolutions (hell, didn't I say I was going to break them?). I am giving myself a break. However, I do have a goal. A goal to make these big insurmountable ideas into small, palpable, workable things. I can't learn a language in a day. Or train for a triathlon in a month. I need to slice all my big ideas into small things that I CAN DO. </div><div><br /></div><div>My advice: give yourself a break. No one needs anymore mental torture anyways. Think about what you really want. What do you need to do to get there? What can you do every day or every week to get there <i>eventually?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And also, <b>keeping some perspective. </b></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-53201931870071624522011-12-18T21:22:00.000-08:002011-12-18T21:32:44.811-08:00Intimacy<div>Closeness beyond belief</div><div>a feeling of home</div><div>knowing someone so well</div><div>better than they know themselves. </div><div>Secrets that are kept between two mouths. </div><div>Trust that is always held up by hope, </div><div>but lives in the murky waters of </div><div>monogamy. </div><div>To know exactly what to say to make one melt. </div><div>To know exactly what to do to make one hurt. </div><div>Love can be a weapon, so many people use it for evil. </div><div>I ask myself to take my guard down. To love completely and without question. </div><div>To accept the flaws and idiosyncrasies my love has and for those I possess myself. </div><div>To look in one's eyes and see yourself. To accept fully and continue on. </div><div>Togetherness is lived love. </div><div>Love</div><div>live</div><div>vile</div><div>evolve</div><div>leveraging imaginations to create futures.</div><div>That which is sewn together by the ingredients of our past. Those crumbs never quite dissolve do they. </div><div>Moving on, moving to, moving with</div><div>An intimate body. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-41604351140032430602011-12-10T15:19:00.000-08:002011-12-10T15:24:32.842-08:00Cold, Wintry PortlandThe world is asking so much. <div>Trying to stay afloat. </div><div>Eclipsed. </div><div>Clipped wings, trying to break free. </div><div>The spell of negativity must be broken. </div><div>I will not brainwash myself any longer. </div><div>The capitalist demons who want to buy my life, must wait in line. </div><div>I would say life is priceless, but we can see in our world that that is not true. </div><div>Swimming in a creative space, fueled by ambiguity. </div><div>Jumping on rocks, between creeks, hoping I don't fall. </div><div>Relishing in ambiguity. </div><div>Holding on for dear life to everything that is real. </div><div>But is it?</div><div>Mirages of the imagination. </div><div>Dreams and nightmares dancing together on the same stage. </div><div>Embraces remembered in the body far after they occur. </div><div>Imbalance, breaking bodies. </div><div>Breathing bodies. </div><div>That which is living</div><div>and full</div><div>of</div><div>______________</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-51697239410251959232011-12-02T08:21:00.000-08:002011-12-02T08:52:46.163-08:00Retracing 3000 miles back; Hello PortlandIt's been a week since I left NY. I realize how much of NY is still in me, or perhaps how much of myself is still there. The car arrived to pick me up at 4am. I carried the two large suitcases, the same amount I arrived with and placed my worldly belongings in the car. I said goodbye to my lovely apartment that is no longer mine, but a replacement in someone else's future. The car ride to the airport was rough. It was cold, I was tired and weepy the whole way there. It seemed so surreal. Didn't I just arrive in NY? Did I really spend the past year and half in this crazy city, doing crazy things? The finality hit me. The driver asked me if I was staying in the states or going abroad. I suppose he assumed with such large bags, maybe I was going on vacation. I told him I was moving. He sensed the bittersweet tone in my voice; he said, "New York will always be here. Sometimes you need to go away to come back and be really successful'. If only the feeling of failure could be expunged through my tears. <div><br /></div><div>I did not fail. I just didn't get what I set out for. I tried. I had fun. </div><div><br /></div><div>I slept the majority of the 6 hour flight to San Francisco. I kept daydreaming of all the things that happened in NY, trying to happily close that chapter of my life. I arrived in SF at 10am, with my love picking me up to start our new adventure. Luckily for my sake, San Francisco is the one city besides NY that drives me crazy. I am in love and madly so. It has the wonders of NY but with the majestic beauty of California. It feels like home although I've never lived there. Home is not a place, but a feeling of belonging. 72 hours in SF and a 10 hour drive later laced with pitstops in the middle of nowhere, I arrived at my final destination. </div><div><br /></div><div>Portland, Oregon</div><div><br /></div><div>The good thing about Portland is that it has its own majesty. Nature abounds. The people are friendly, the rent is cheap and its great for artists. The bad thing is there is an amazing lack of diversity. Coming from NYC and previously Los Angeles, I feel strange being in a city with so many white young people. I can't help but notice it and feel it. It makes me uncomfortable and I suppose for now there is nothing I can do. I truly celebrate diversity and miss the different cultures ever present in LA and NYC. I know Portland is not permanent. It's an adventure, a pit stop. I enjoy it here for its quiet and stillness, but sometimes I feel spooked by it. The buzzing of NY contrasted by the silence here is eerie. Something to get used to. Also, friendly strangers talking to you! There is still so much to learn, discover and open myself up to. For now I am trying to get to know the city, find a place with my bf, and luckily I have found a part time gig for now. I yearn for creating again, but when you are wondering when your next paycheck will come, or where you will lay your head, it's hard to stay focused. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another test. So many tests. A test of the will and character. A(nother) test of our relationship. Closeness circumvented by confusion. A lack of anything concrete, but a place full of dreams and desires. I will create a garden of our futures and plant our seeds. Mapping out past, present and future. Settling into time and place. </div><div><br /></div><div>An adventure I must be open to. Opening myself up to possibilities and questions. It is frightening and exhilarating to not know one's immediate future-- to go with the tide, to hustle, to create flowers out of cement. My time will come and I realize I am blessed in so many ways. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-79699925733949101732011-11-05T21:20:00.000-07:002011-11-05T21:35:14.392-07:00ConundrumsContraptions<div>Consequences</div><div>find their way </div><div>hollowed out in unkept promises</div><div>words that meant nothing</div><div>a fleeting thought that was never that serious. </div><div>Commitment and its counter part. </div><div>Failure. </div><div>Commotion</div><div>with motion</div><div>dancing lavishly upon the worlds stage</div><div>forgetting others have troubles worse than yours</div><div>Nina, the voice of the goddess</div><div>bellowing blues out of the beguiled</div><div>Nobody loves you when you're down and out</div><div>Finding out the hard way</div><div>(more than ever)</div><div>nothing is simple</div><div>or exactly what you thought</div><div>re-imaginging possibilities</div><div>as finite hope</div><div>turned into action</div><div>and promises that can be married</div><div>in a union fitting of a king and queen. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-64837571637900599232011-10-31T11:39:00.001-07:002011-10-31T12:07:59.339-07:00The Birthday Party<div>He called the young lady at 11pm, so his wife would not hear his phone call. </div><div>She was asleep, dreaming of a different life.</div><div> The message asked if she could stop by at 9am. </div><div>The young lady awoke. It was her birthday. 27 years old and stuck. A scorpio with a heart of gold and a temper. </div><div>Sensitive. Moody. Jealous. Passionate. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sting</div><div>Stung</div><div><br /></div><div>She called him back. "Yes, I can come over. See you soon"</div><div>She walked the four blocks in the crisp, cool morning. </div><div>She arrived at his house at 8:58am. Punctuality was her strongest trait. </div><div>He opened the door, smiled widely and said, "Good morning" and greeted her. </div><div>She smiled back, hesitantly. He was almost a stranger. Those eyes, so intense and peering, unnerved her. But she needed to be there. </div><div>She walked in slowly and carefully, assessing the house and feeling the discomfort all over again. </div><div>So many feelings washing over her. </div><div>There was a moment where they acted like nothing happened. </div><div>He gave her orders and she followed. </div><div>She started by cleaning the dishes. Old espresso cups, crumby plates and stained forks. </div><div>She stayed silent while washing. His presence was there, watching over her. </div><div>After the dishes, he complained about the tub. </div><div>"The tub is not clean. Maybe to your standards, but surely not mine". </div><div>Her stomach sank. Tied in knots. </div><div>She muttered an apology, half out of pain and half out of shock. </div><div>She went to his room to put away his clothes. </div><div>"Remember, don't put away socks that don't have a match. I have no use for single socks"</div><div>She saw his shirts with the names of all the exotic cities he had been to. </div><div>The picture frames of his wife, and four lovely kids were placed all over the room. </div><div>What an intimate little venture. </div><div>She thought about what his life was like before. What his life was like now. </div><div>What did he do? He was like her, but he had the power.</div><div>Money can buy you anything. </div><div>She moved to the bathroom to deal with the dirty laundry. His stained underwear and sweaty shirts disgusted her. All in a day's work. </div><div>After getting lost in the maze of the house and dizzy with the work, she became numb. </div><div>No one knew it was her birthday. It was as if she were hiding a secret from the world. To keep inside of her everything-- to share with no one. She wanted to be alone. </div><div>Instead she was cleaning his house. He complained some more. Things were not good enough. </div><div>Her OCD which had been a source of amusement for all her friends, was not enough to please him. </div><div>He was no longer happy with her. With a look in her eyes, tearing up at the non-existent future she saw for herself, she uttered with all her might, the words that barely came:</div><div>"I don't think I'm right for you"</div><div>She got her money. $40. He wanted 5 bucks in change, but she lied and said she didn't have any money. She thought to herself, "what a fucking cheapskate"</div><div>As she left his building, the avalanche of emotions caved in on her. The tears were unstoppable. She walked home, past the stay at home moms and the dog walkers. Picking up some vodka on her way home, she decided to create her own birthday party. </div><div>To celebrate what, who knows. </div><div>The day was drawn out, in long intervals, interspersed with waiting and watching. </div><div>The sigh of relief came, once the clock turned 12. </div><div>The birthday party was over. </div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-48693856414267460432011-10-26T20:04:00.001-07:002011-10-26T20:08:22.215-07:00Ant-Bird with Rob Andrews<div><br /></div><div>A case study of endurance and commitment.</div><div>An exchange of voices among chaos. </div><div>Pushing more, with fear unfolding. </div><div> Crescendoing to the future.</div><div>Climax. </div><div>Collapse. </div><div>Relapse. </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOdKAx4VEGqRV07lpYhNCktyKflPQoFV_OW5p04abGytWAtAcKbAkaoARfMxkbNG_82Op4LPiKM1rtuWKDeVZeaUDoMm7NwndA-YRxi1fi061LVb6J0Da6zUIO285B4pzPS7AhnoyXj1V/s1600/rob1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOdKAx4VEGqRV07lpYhNCktyKflPQoFV_OW5p04abGytWAtAcKbAkaoARfMxkbNG_82Op4LPiKM1rtuWKDeVZeaUDoMm7NwndA-YRxi1fi061LVb6J0Da6zUIO285B4pzPS7AhnoyXj1V/s320/rob1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668002739059184610" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmf8P7a6fszdf6nC_wtpfo-7kSkj-wKh7w-KhuHA2Hih_Mq4XIFQRA4kqTR6SSky82yaSbqYdVwe_oriNjSW35pye7kYkrKL9iKhU9jcdIjyUxlv-2DM60G-iwejm-4VVxsdXdb0td8n8/s1600/rob2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmf8P7a6fszdf6nC_wtpfo-7kSkj-wKh7w-KhuHA2Hih_Mq4XIFQRA4kqTR6SSky82yaSbqYdVwe_oriNjSW35pye7kYkrKL9iKhU9jcdIjyUxlv-2DM60G-iwejm-4VVxsdXdb0td8n8/s320/rob2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668002738352773410" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry0U9RyMFvoN-yT50TI_fE7XRfq5m6XBC6NC5oZOhEX5Zn8P5ef6SViD9DormfteiAHbrCyiLfEHPQwx6H5bYFkJMJbATELeXjX5UbRbRQgXTCL1A3ArInr5OA-0xF96ThGwyA-BAQT1G/s1600/rob3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry0U9RyMFvoN-yT50TI_fE7XRfq5m6XBC6NC5oZOhEX5Zn8P5ef6SViD9DormfteiAHbrCyiLfEHPQwx6H5bYFkJMJbATELeXjX5UbRbRQgXTCL1A3ArInr5OA-0xF96ThGwyA-BAQT1G/s320/rob3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668002617578815746" /></a>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-64359145865039021892011-10-17T21:28:00.000-07:002011-10-17T21:54:11.608-07:00Collaboration and MagicI honestly believe I can learn something from everyone. I've worked with many different people in a variety of different settings over the past 10 years, and believe because of these meetings and collaborations, I have become a richer person for it. <div><br /><div>Sometimes as adults, we get caught up in routine. We get caught up with thinking we know how the world works. Our days play out through mechanical motions, our minds rarely ever breaking above water to complete consciousness. The world becomes insular. Collaboration actively disrupts this solipsism. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, while in my collaborative theatre project in Red Hook, a moment of magic occurred. The group, which is comprised of three adults and three youth were talking about the idea of protest. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>What does a protest look like?</div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>How do protests occur?</div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>What sparks the action of protest? </div><div><br /></div><div>We agreed that to protest, is to say that we wish for a different world. A world in which things are <b><i>better</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">. We agreed that to protest, is to fight against something that we want to change which usually occurs from an inciting action. After discussing for a while what protests look like and how they are presented in the world, the eleven year old next to me paused and said, "What we are doing right here (motioning to the circle, the group) is a protest. Writing our play about </span><i>our</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> ideas and what we </span><i>want </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">to change in the world is a form of protest". </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was taken aback. I started to tear up (apparently, I'm really sensitive). I spent 60k studying arts and activism and performance as protest and here this 11 year old girl blew my mind with how articulate and thought provoking she was. After relishing in the enjoyment of having such a beautiful moment and exchange, I realized this is why I love collaboration. Sometimes magic occurs. Age, race, sex, and difference create opportunities for genuine exchange. A dialogue that puts each person at the forefront of his or her own experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>Between my experiences at Occupy Wall Street and my work on this theatre project, I am humbled by the beauty of people, ideas and collaboration. Sometimes there is no substitute for a life of exchange and collaboration. A book, a lecture, or school cannot compare. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>I am reminded of how much we can grow if we only let ourselves. </b></div></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-87563645393271836632011-10-10T11:52:00.000-07:002011-10-10T12:21:06.937-07:00Ritual with Rob AndrewsOn Saturday, I performed in the Art in Odd Places festival with Rob Andrews. In the piece, I was asked to wear a black cloth over my face which covered most of my body. I placed two jars full of water, gauze and some postcards at my feet, while standing barefoot on a grass mat. The postcards invited audience members to wash my feet, hold my feet and pray. The symbolism was strong and intense. <div><br /></div><div>Initially, I had mixed feelings about the piece. I wasn't quite sure how the piece would make me feel or how it would affect the audience, but it was something I wanted to do regardless. I arrived in Union Square at 3pm. I was able to see the other cloaked figures with passersby gazing at the mysterious ensemble. Slowly and carefully, I placed my materials on the ground. For some reason, I decided to face the sun, to look directly at the audience. I covered myself in the cloth, and was still able to partially see through the black veil. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first 15 minutes were a challenge. The sun was beating down on me and I couldn't quite find my place of peace. I centered my breath and started focusing. I saw the collection of eyes and cameras (meta eyes) peering at me, trying to make it all make sense. The echoes of voices, "what is this about?", "what does it mean?", "who would want to wash someone's feet?" swam about in disembodied voices. I could only see directly ahead of me and sometimes people with cameras came frighteningly close, trying to get the perfect picture. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stood still. As still and silent as possible for two hours. I was unsure if I could actually accomplish this feat, but I was able to do so. The main problem was the heat, but I was able to meditatively focus on my presence and the actions of others. I got my feet washed about 8 times. I believe most of them were by my other performers, but at least two were outside viewers. It was interesting to feel the differences in people's touch, energy and action in washing my feet. Some people had such tenderness it was moving. </div><div><br /></div><div>At one point, Rob and his son came to wash my feet. Rob's son said, "I'm making art with dada!" and I started tearing up it was so beautiful. The interesting part for me, was that I thought that this piece would make me uncomfortable, or feel degrading for me or the audience. But I had a completely different reaction. I felt peaceful and meditative--I felt a connection with those washing my feet, the touch of another human. We could not exchange glances, but only exchange energy and this was powerful to me. Hearing the comments and watching the spectators helped me focus. I enjoyed that the piece made people uncomfortable, made people question and made some participate. </div><div><br /></div><div>About two-thirds of the way through, there was another attraction behind me. From what I heard, there was a nearly naked black man behind me. I wanted to look. I resisted the urge and stayed focused. It was interesting to watch the shift from me to him in a matter of seconds. To hear all the commotion, but not be a part of it. This portion of the performance tested me in my ability to 'stay in the moment'. After the other performer left, most people went off with him. A few more people wandered by, some taking photos, others hesitantly walking back and forth, deciding on inaction rather than action. </div><div><br /></div><div>After two hours, I took off the cloth. The sun was still so strong and the air, and my breath and the ground felt different. I was in a haze-- something between being disoriented and being at peace. I walked home taking it all in trying to focus my feelings on the moment and in the intense beauty of the experience. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-67931586059295761002011-10-03T19:52:00.000-07:002011-10-03T19:55:23.858-07:00A case of loveA case of love for me and you. <div>I will wrap myself beside you and be present with this present. </div><div>I follow you, love, out of my own failure here. </div><div>The ghosts of turbulence will no longer linger, but provide only a shadow of what was. </div><div>We will become something great. What I have been wishing for. My fears will be assuaged by your sweet breath. </div><div>I am leaving everything behind for you. </div><div>Behind. </div><div>To let go, without looking back and never questioning why. </div><div>To grow older in your arms, to know that it is you that has my caress. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-22144120837475615412011-09-27T20:43:00.001-07:002011-09-27T20:59:12.504-07:00What makes a lifeand what makes it worth living?<div><br /></div><div>Is it love or work?</div><div><br /></div><div>The workless, unemployed statistic, down trodden by debt overload. I am young on the verge of old. Any minute now, my stress will appear on my face in finely lined wrinkles. I will call it wisdom. The mistakes of tripping on one's own decisions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Decisions, decisions. Collapsed in mortal fear and despair. An emptiness that is becoming of my sullen face. This is not what I wanted my life to be. My OCD is driving me mad. I have no control and I sell myself everyday to people who want to parcel me out. Some buy the passion, others buy the sex, some, though infrequent buy my brain. A tickle. </div><div><br /></div><div>To fancy yet nothing that will come. A waiting and stillness. Silence for the first time. Risks, choices, love, life, money, and what? What else? what else? what else? what else? what else?</div><div><br /></div><div>I am letting my fingers talk. I need more discipline. More. More. More. Discipline. Focus. I need to live my own life and not be jealous of others. That green monster envy lives in me somewhere and I try to expel her. There is not enough room for the two of us. Someone someday will figure this out. That I am worth it. Or so I have to tell myself. The stories we tell ourselves-- how fascinating it is to create our reality. Fractions of identity, looking for the whole pieces. </div><div><br /></div><div>If someone could just notice. Please. To sincerely see what is in me and make a move. But my struggle is wrapped up in your struggle and we will not be set free until we find our way out of the maze. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-45148192079732596662011-08-24T10:47:00.000-07:002011-08-24T11:00:40.928-07:00Trains, time and transitionsOn Monday, I took the train from Penn Station to Montreal's Gare Central. The ride was about 12 hours. Who knew the rest of NY was so green? I have adored trains for a while now, and even though many people complain about Amtrak's delays, smelly cars and average customer service, I find trains to be so relaxing. My life is always controlled by the clock. I am always close to being late, or way too early. I'm at the mercy of life in the city. Appointment, meeting, class, ellipsis on the scale.....on a train, time is halted. For hours, my mind wanders in the luxuriousness of having nowhere to go. I am stuck....in the most positive of ways. Being able to observe, pontificate, ruminate, while watching the beautiful landscape pass me by provides an insurmountable pleasure. <div>
<br /></div><div>Slow down. I've heard that many times, but never do it. In times like this, when everything seems to be moving so fast, but not fast enough, I have to remember this. I have to remember that the most important things in life are punctuated by moments. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>I am in Montreal enjoying the fresh air, the friendly people, the beautiful french words falling so gracefully off of Quebecoise tongues.....My life outside is relaxing. A change of scenery, of pace. To not be at the mercy of time, to exercise some free will....but my inner turmoil is poisoning. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>One decision will change the course of my life. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Decisions like this complicate everything because they make you re-evaluate everything in your life. What is important? What is at stake? How will my action or inaction affect me? Others? Now and in the future? So many questions, but the answers are buried in rubble. I want to have everything. Does that make me selfish? </div><div>
<br /></div><div>As cliche as it sounds, only time will tell. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-10274678857569692522011-07-22T17:52:00.000-07:002011-07-22T18:04:38.595-07:00Working Hard (for the money)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiks8q4mjky22DOjoG3n90SMmi67dDHLXV7BQBRyahmQ8lPUk0qLUepVQDX62aWlCSrnCvh8WWvp-0gDpGynda-EJ7EHgFz4A8c1Q02EXcqeZSBwZRUYkiefAmL6KSxOVcjCkHQcyxnXuLI/s1600/P1000150.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiks8q4mjky22DOjoG3n90SMmi67dDHLXV7BQBRyahmQ8lPUk0qLUepVQDX62aWlCSrnCvh8WWvp-0gDpGynda-EJ7EHgFz4A8c1Q02EXcqeZSBwZRUYkiefAmL6KSxOVcjCkHQcyxnXuLI/s320/P1000150.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632347373037209266" /></a><br />Hustling. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Wishing. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Waiting. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Wanting. </div><div><br /></div><div>Effort transforms labor into product. </div><div><br /></div><div>Relation(ships)</div><div><br /></div><div>occur</div><div><br /></div><div>fingers crossed, things will go my way. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eye to eye, hands held, a moment is shared. A moment of understanding. To level the field that is always unbalanced. </div><div><br /></div><div>And to sit with friendly ghosts in chairs. The perilous past invading the present. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tempo Auralities</div><div><br /></div><div>Temporalities</div><div><br /></div><div>Time baking in the sun. A Dali painting. </div><div><br /></div><div>Originality is only believed because it came to my mind as a new idea. Recycled from something else. Mashed up, blended mix of pomo ideas. Diet. </div><div><br /></div><div>The lo-cal post modernist, pastiche lifestyle. </div><div><br /></div><div>Trying to find my niche. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-24256358616682017032011-07-08T16:48:00.000-07:002011-07-08T16:57:27.474-07:00Good VibrationsThis week has been so rewarding, surprising, and uplifting with sprinkles of hard work and enchantment. Experiences and conversations, opportunities, questions to be answered, facts to become routines. <div><br /></div><div>Good Vibrations. </div><div><br /></div><div>Radical Positivity. </div><div><br /></div><div>I taught my first Theatre class at the Women's shelter two blocks from my house. I was nervous. Who wants to do theatre? Who cares about theatre (especially if you are homeless)? The negative naggings kept popping up. I convinced myself otherwise. The brain is a powerful tool of destruction. 2 people showed up. It was close and intimate, revealing and silly. My actors for the day provided me with much inspiration, insight and clarity. They were so bloody brilliant and creative. And they have no freaking clue. They thought they were being silly. They felt challenged. I wanted to put myself in this situation because I am looking to challenge myself. To give back to my community and learn symbiotically. Theatre is about storytelling, masking and unmasking identities....this was the perfect foray into a new creative experience. I will be working with them every Friday evening and I couldn't be more thrilled. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am always thinking of how I can challenge myself and how can I learn with and through my community: I think I found my answer. </div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273807236760400645.post-61060529268254349332011-07-02T15:26:00.000-07:002011-07-02T16:02:49.777-07:00HomeHome is not a place, or a location but a series of feelings. An intricate binding of thoughts from the present, the past, and the desired future. Home is a place of comfort, of nostalgia, of pain and pleasure permeating the mundane. <div><br /></div><div>Where is my home? Can one feel like they are from somewhere they are not? Home is the placement of memories on the canvas of my body, the conversations that appear in past lives, only to be remembered in subconscious dreams. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home is not a place, but a desire. A desire to be accepted, to feel wanted, to feel loved. Home is neither here nor there, but everywhere I have laid my head to rest and found joy and love. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home is a work in progress. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home alludes the present tense. </div><div><br /></div><div>My home, my heart, is scattered--from the west, to the east, to the south to the far north. Friendly cities and intellectual continents, fading and surpassing, waxing and waning just like the moon above. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home is the desire to <i>belong.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948470992665696642noreply@blogger.com0