Collapse, Wasteland and running through your fears

This 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.

The first was Collapse 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.

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.

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.

The husband says, "How do we not collapse?"

Wife, "I am not sure we can. I think we need to learn how to fall together"

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.

The other amazing piece of art I saw was the documentary Wasteland. 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.

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.

Complacency is the enemy of resistance and social change.

I am moving through the week feeling inspired with thoughtful questions and the desire to do something.

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.

Moving into the week, I plan to stay focused and inspired.

Fissures

the beginning

is near

who says you can't do anything

just try

sometimes I just want to be a kid again

not worry about any of this stuff

I got my food stamps today

I went to the store and pretended it was xmas

so much food

gluttonous and dirty

inhaling every breath of creativity

but transforming into abstract expression

desire still ranks #1, with confusion a close second

I must remember that life is not a race, but sometimes it feels like

I'm trapped.

I want to think outside of myself.

To take a vacation from my brain.

how to get a way from one's self?

how to move through one's self to another?

my heart is a home, with three locations

my head is a cabinet of ponderings

wandering and wondering

seeking and reaching

failing

utterly useless statements

that fall on the blank page like hard cement.

just give me something real.

what makes a person cry?

such a strange and mysterious thing tears are.

cleansing and absolving

working through that sadness

expelling.

I listen for the song to call to me.

wait my turn to enter.

believe in what each note tells me is true.

the music of life, always so sharp

sometimes not a chorus, but a solo.

rarely too, a collaboration.

Angels in America at Portland Playhouse

Tony Kushner's play Angels in America 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.

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.

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.

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.

Winding down/Winding up

The 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.

A year ago, I wrote some resolutions 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?

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.

How can you accomplish everything you want when you don't have everything you need?

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.

2011 had a lot of great things to it-- love, adventure, performance. It also had a lot of downs. Unemployment, massive debt, loneliness.

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.

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 eventually?

And also, keeping some perspective.

Intimacy

Closeness beyond belief

a feeling of home

knowing someone so well

better than they know themselves.

Secrets that are kept between two mouths.

Trust that is always held up by hope,

but lives in the murky waters of

monogamy.

To know exactly what to say to make one melt.

To know exactly what to do to make one hurt.

Love can be a weapon, so many people use it for evil.

I ask myself to take my guard down. To love completely and without question.

To accept the flaws and idiosyncrasies my love has and for those I possess myself.

To look in one's eyes and see yourself. To accept fully and continue on.

Togetherness is lived love.

Love

live

vile

evolve

leveraging imaginations to create futures.

That which is sewn together by the ingredients of our past. Those crumbs never quite dissolve do they.

Moving on, moving to, moving with

An intimate body.

Cold, Wintry Portland

The world is asking so much.

Trying to stay afloat.

Eclipsed.

Clipped wings, trying to break free.

The spell of negativity must be broken.

I will not brainwash myself any longer.

The capitalist demons who want to buy my life, must wait in line.

I would say life is priceless, but we can see in our world that that is not true.

Swimming in a creative space, fueled by ambiguity.

Jumping on rocks, between creeks, hoping I don't fall.

Relishing in ambiguity.

Holding on for dear life to everything that is real.

But is it?

Mirages of the imagination.

Dreams and nightmares dancing together on the same stage.

Embraces remembered in the body far after they occur.

Imbalance, breaking bodies.

Breathing bodies.

That which is living

and full

of

______________

Retracing 3000 miles back; Hello Portland

It'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.

I did not fail. I just didn't get what I set out for. I tried. I had fun.

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.

Portland, Oregon

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.

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.

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.