I am so in love with art, and the brave, hardworking souls who make it.
Two pieces I saw in the last few days have totally floored me.
Now maybe I am coming really late to this party but Up was my first Pixar film. Truth be told, probably one of only a handful of animated movies I've ever seen. I don't know if they are all this good. But this one is. SO BRILLIANT and beautiful and heartbreaking. I cried. Twice. And I smiled a lot. And guffawed a couple of times too.
The other piece, the Broadway musical Next to Normal gave me a similar sensation. I stood in the rush ticket line this morning, which of course only adds to the experience-- should a person be lucky enough to get in. [Or you can get there at 5am, as many people did, mothers and daughters and young Hugh Jackmans with their folding chairs and snacks and theater trivia games.] I listened to so many repeat offenders, young and old people who love this show and are so empowered by it. People were trading lots of stories, how mental illness or the loss of a child had touched their lives personally. Then, tonight, I sat smack in the center of the front row and watched a bunch of sickly talented superstars sing and move and talk in really gut-wrenching, visually-satisfying, emotionally-potent ways. I am so amazed at the boldness of this show-- dealing with this very real, little-talked about subject matter. And it reminds me of how I felt when I saw Rent, in 1997.
And it also reminds me that theater (insert: 'that I like') doesn't always have to cool, or even try to be cool. It will serve me to remember that when people make something that is true and beautiful and depressing and sincere and (seemingly) hopelessly un-commercial it is VERY cool. It is very cool to feel things deeply. Especially in live performance. Sometimes it's easier to feel things more in movies, that distancing effect, (watching movies on airplanes even more so!)-- but it's not impossible to be completely transported by live theater. It's hard, but worth the try I guess.
In the front row next to me tonight two college-age girls held hands as they shook with tears streaming down their faces. Then after the show, they both said how much better they felt and how much people were talking about 'stuff-- because of the show.'
Talking about 'stuff' ... and also empowered and seriously entertained.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
gut in the best sense of the word
Spring. Change. Seedlings into blossoms with a few puddles along the way.
I walked out of my cousin's oasis with lightness in my step, along Lorimer Street, past the Sette Pani bakery that smells like Italian cookie heaven and loved the sweet rain. Tonight, warm and wet I remembered the month this fall when I lived there and did this walk every day. Then I came out of the train and walked through Times Square. Where I have been living for the past month. All bright lights and theater and commerce and tourists. I listened to The Walkmen and Sunset Rubdown and Erica and my own head and tried to make some decisions. Fortunately I came upon this article my cousin wrote. It's pretty great I think. And since I bet you are facing some decisions too-- here it is, for you.
Does God Blink? -- From Malcolm Gladwell to St. Ignatius, the science and spirituality of how we decide
by Kate Clancy
Some call it intuition. Divine insight. Animal instinct. God’s Will. Whatever we label this natural ability to tune in to a deeper inner voice, the question remains: How do we develop discernment in the middle of chaos and indecision?
He may not call it the voice of God, but according to pop-sociologist Malcolm Gladwell, best selling author of The Tipping Point, relying on your first gut reaction is a good way to gamble when it comes to making hard decisions.
In his follow-up book about how we make decisions, Blink, Gladwell looks at a team of firefighters interviewed about their decision-making process during moments of emergency. He concludes that when these professionals make decisions — like evacuating their entire team seconds before a burning ceiling collapses — they don’t logically compare all available options. Instead, they draw on impulse and previous training to assess the situation quickly and act.
What Gladwell is driving at, and what has baffled scholars for ages is: How do we decide? His premise, basically, is that we subconsciously process information more quickly and more efficiently than we might think. This leaves a question of context: If we really are evaluating millions of facts very quickly, how can we move toward a more intentional process? .
[click here to read more]
I walked out of my cousin's oasis with lightness in my step, along Lorimer Street, past the Sette Pani bakery that smells like Italian cookie heaven and loved the sweet rain. Tonight, warm and wet I remembered the month this fall when I lived there and did this walk every day. Then I came out of the train and walked through Times Square. Where I have been living for the past month. All bright lights and theater and commerce and tourists. I listened to The Walkmen and Sunset Rubdown and Erica and my own head and tried to make some decisions. Fortunately I came upon this article my cousin wrote. It's pretty great I think. And since I bet you are facing some decisions too-- here it is, for you.
Does God Blink? -- From Malcolm Gladwell to St. Ignatius, the science and spirituality of how we decide
by Kate Clancy
Some call it intuition. Divine insight. Animal instinct. God’s Will. Whatever we label this natural ability to tune in to a deeper inner voice, the question remains: How do we develop discernment in the middle of chaos and indecision?
He may not call it the voice of God, but according to pop-sociologist Malcolm Gladwell, best selling author of The Tipping Point, relying on your first gut reaction is a good way to gamble when it comes to making hard decisions.
In his follow-up book about how we make decisions, Blink, Gladwell looks at a team of firefighters interviewed about their decision-making process during moments of emergency. He concludes that when these professionals make decisions — like evacuating their entire team seconds before a burning ceiling collapses — they don’t logically compare all available options. Instead, they draw on impulse and previous training to assess the situation quickly and act.
What Gladwell is driving at, and what has baffled scholars for ages is: How do we decide? His premise, basically, is that we subconsciously process information more quickly and more efficiently than we might think. This leaves a question of context: If we really are evaluating millions of facts very quickly, how can we move toward a more intentional process? .
[click here to read more]
Monday, May 11, 2009
a birthday and a thought
dear reader,
I just want to thank you for reading this. It has now been a little over two years since I've been at this, and though I'm not the most consistent contributor, I am indeed still at it. I love talking to you. At times I feel like you are a trusted friend and/or a curious stranger-- and both have their places in helping me to 'keep coming back.'
With my birthday last week I had the lovely opportunity to assess pretty much all things in my life and celebrate the good stuff, and, inevitably, be a little too hard on my self about the rest of it. In the past month I got to see two old friends, of 10+ years-- and in both instances I caught myself saying lots of "remember the time..." or "oh, that's where..." and they were both stunned by my memory. A great comedian once used the elephant simile on me. [Fascinatingly enough-- I think elephants REALLY DO have AMAZING memories.]
I just put myself through the great experience of reading Daphne Merkin's 8-page memoir on Depression in this week's New York Times Magazine and one line stood out to me quite a bit. In debating whether to use Electro-Convulsive Therapy (today's update of Electro-Shock Therapy) or not Ms. Merkin highlighted the value of her memories. "I may have hated my life, but I valued my memories — even the unhappy ones, paradoxical as that may seem. I lived for the details, and the writer I once was made vivid use of them."
I love writing this blog. I love writing letters, but I especially love writing when I am not conscious of what the 'tone' of the thing should be. Who it's aimed at. What they may or may not want to hear.
It feels very freeing-- like the greatest old friends-- to be able to say whatever is on my mind without recrimination or much potential for misunderstanding.
Thank you for coming back, whoever you are.
I just want to thank you for reading this. It has now been a little over two years since I've been at this, and though I'm not the most consistent contributor, I am indeed still at it. I love talking to you. At times I feel like you are a trusted friend and/or a curious stranger-- and both have their places in helping me to 'keep coming back.'
With my birthday last week I had the lovely opportunity to assess pretty much all things in my life and celebrate the good stuff, and, inevitably, be a little too hard on my self about the rest of it. In the past month I got to see two old friends, of 10+ years-- and in both instances I caught myself saying lots of "remember the time..." or "oh, that's where..." and they were both stunned by my memory. A great comedian once used the elephant simile on me. [Fascinatingly enough-- I think elephants REALLY DO have AMAZING memories.]
I just put myself through the great experience of reading Daphne Merkin's 8-page memoir on Depression in this week's New York Times Magazine and one line stood out to me quite a bit. In debating whether to use Electro-Convulsive Therapy (today's update of Electro-Shock Therapy) or not Ms. Merkin highlighted the value of her memories. "I may have hated my life, but I valued my memories — even the unhappy ones, paradoxical as that may seem. I lived for the details, and the writer I once was made vivid use of them."
I love writing this blog. I love writing letters, but I especially love writing when I am not conscious of what the 'tone' of the thing should be. Who it's aimed at. What they may or may not want to hear.
It feels very freeing-- like the greatest old friends-- to be able to say whatever is on my mind without recrimination or much potential for misunderstanding.
Thank you for coming back, whoever you are.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I think Eloise taught me this.
Find a picture. Look at it and then close your eyes. Enter that world. Listen, smell, touch, taste, look around. Let the words come to you like a flash. Open your eyes. Write them down.
Small is relative.
I hope I feel this mischievous on my wedding day.
"Oh grandma, are you sure your legs aren't healed yet?"
This might turn out to be the happiest moment of both of their lives.
"Yea, put your fingers like so-- that makes the whole thing look really authentic."
If you lived here you'd be home now.
or
I really like yellow.
or
"Did she say meet her in the ultimate or the penultimate one on the left?"
the pictures are by the wonderful and amazing Peter Turnley from his take on "Family of Man." The link to the pictures are here. He is a good man and has photographed the estimable Codman Academy.
Small is relative.
I hope I feel this mischievous on my wedding day.
"Oh grandma, are you sure your legs aren't healed yet?"
This might turn out to be the happiest moment of both of their lives.
"Yea, put your fingers like so-- that makes the whole thing look really authentic."
If you lived here you'd be home now.
or
I really like yellow.
or
"Did she say meet her in the ultimate or the penultimate one on the left?"
the pictures are by the wonderful and amazing Peter Turnley from his take on "Family of Man." The link to the pictures are here. He is a good man and has photographed the estimable Codman Academy.
Monday, April 20, 2009
these modest facts
I wrote this 20 days ago but wasn't connected to the internet so then I forgot about it until today. Since I have been so remiss in posting here I'm scraping together even the ones I had forgotten.
John Updike wrote a poem called “Peggy Lutz, Fred Murth” on December 13th, 2008. He died shortly after Christmas, less than two weeks later. Several poems from his final months were published in a recent issue of the New Yorker and it took me several times with the issue before I got through more than a line or two of each. Poetry for me requires a very specific state of mind. Patience. Generosity. Curiosity. Patience again… And compassion, or a willingness to be open and sensitive. To let down the guard of my workhorse self and let the cogs in the machine in my head move about, float a bit, and maybe—hopefully—re-attach in some new and different, transformed way. I can’t be doing three or four things at once and I can’t be thinking about any other thing—at least not until moved to do so by the words on the page. Surprisingly, rare as it is in my day-to-day life—this mode, the state poetry is in-- is probably my favorite. Because, it is also the state where I can really feel. Really think. And really listen.
[I love Mach-4 (as in flight not razor) mode too, don’t get me wrong—and I love feeling fast, efficient, productive. But there’s a little something special about that dreamy other place—where the rules of punctuation and linearity fall away.
from the poem:
“I’ve written these before, these modest facts,
but their meaning has no bottom in my mind.
The fragments in their jiggled scope collide
To form more sacred windows. I had to move
To beautiful New England—its triple
Deckers, whited churches, unplowed streets—
To learn how dreary and deadly life can be.”
I really love this poem and this part of it. I grew up in a triple-decker on a hill in Dorchester that the plows often overlooked. Snowstorms meant going out into the world knowing that more than likely the trip home at the end would include a group effort push of the car up the hill.
In the past few months I have been filling out a lot of applications (fellowships, grants) and prepping for some interviews where questions like "tell us about yourself as an artist" laser at me with terrifying frequency. It was terrifying until I really organized my 'story' -- of truths of course-- but where the ordering and delivery can really shape a stranger's understanding. I lined up and made sense of my modest facts. And I am finding Updike's observation to hold true-- their meaning has a sort of infinite bottom.
John Updike wrote a poem called “Peggy Lutz, Fred Murth” on December 13th, 2008. He died shortly after Christmas, less than two weeks later. Several poems from his final months were published in a recent issue of the New Yorker and it took me several times with the issue before I got through more than a line or two of each. Poetry for me requires a very specific state of mind. Patience. Generosity. Curiosity. Patience again… And compassion, or a willingness to be open and sensitive. To let down the guard of my workhorse self and let the cogs in the machine in my head move about, float a bit, and maybe—hopefully—re-attach in some new and different, transformed way. I can’t be doing three or four things at once and I can’t be thinking about any other thing—at least not until moved to do so by the words on the page. Surprisingly, rare as it is in my day-to-day life—this mode, the state poetry is in-- is probably my favorite. Because, it is also the state where I can really feel. Really think. And really listen.
[I love Mach-4 (as in flight not razor) mode too, don’t get me wrong—and I love feeling fast, efficient, productive. But there’s a little something special about that dreamy other place—where the rules of punctuation and linearity fall away.
from the poem:
“I’ve written these before, these modest facts,
but their meaning has no bottom in my mind.
The fragments in their jiggled scope collide
To form more sacred windows. I had to move
To beautiful New England—its triple
Deckers, whited churches, unplowed streets—
To learn how dreary and deadly life can be.”
I really love this poem and this part of it. I grew up in a triple-decker on a hill in Dorchester that the plows often overlooked. Snowstorms meant going out into the world knowing that more than likely the trip home at the end would include a group effort push of the car up the hill.
In the past few months I have been filling out a lot of applications (fellowships, grants) and prepping for some interviews where questions like "tell us about yourself as an artist" laser at me with terrifying frequency. It was terrifying until I really organized my 'story' -- of truths of course-- but where the ordering and delivery can really shape a stranger's understanding. I lined up and made sense of my modest facts. And I am finding Updike's observation to hold true-- their meaning has a sort of infinite bottom.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
this happened yesterday
On one subway car three men with distinct causes
One man all in white (dress) chanting voodoo and stomping out the bad spirits, and shaking arms like quaking aspens.
One man a young-ish black guy who had a boom box and wanted to throwdown some moves, probably-- virtuosic.
And a white older guy who was maybe part blind.
When the young guy started in at the voodoo guy like “oh please mister, I gots this car find another train to do your voodoo shit on, Go back to Bellevue” this and that—the older guy was like “chill man, we all got our own show going on, our own talent-like”
There was a mother and daughter on the train too who when the voodoo man/woman came stomping near them they would sorta get smaller and the mom would look straight ahead like there was nothing happening but too stiff-like and the daughter was almost laughing and just whispered, “is this for real?”
I think maybe they were tourists, at least the mother most likely.
Everybody was looking around. Almost breaking up laughing or some people looked sad. Raw deal some people got. Its not really funny I guess.
One man all in white (dress) chanting voodoo and stomping out the bad spirits, and shaking arms like quaking aspens.
One man a young-ish black guy who had a boom box and wanted to throwdown some moves, probably-- virtuosic.
And a white older guy who was maybe part blind.
When the young guy started in at the voodoo guy like “oh please mister, I gots this car find another train to do your voodoo shit on, Go back to Bellevue” this and that—the older guy was like “chill man, we all got our own show going on, our own talent-like”
There was a mother and daughter on the train too who when the voodoo man/woman came stomping near them they would sorta get smaller and the mom would look straight ahead like there was nothing happening but too stiff-like and the daughter was almost laughing and just whispered, “is this for real?”
I think maybe they were tourists, at least the mother most likely.
Everybody was looking around. Almost breaking up laughing or some people looked sad. Raw deal some people got. Its not really funny I guess.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I remember Philip Newby
A few weeks ago the world lost a great, great, hilarious, generous, kind, thoughtful, brilliant STAR. I was lucky enough to share the stage with Philip in Ivona, Princess of Burgundia at Sacred Fools in May & June 2005 and at Soop Sok in Koreatown at my 25th birthday. We sang Time after Time and any time anyone else sang all night Philip pressed the 'applause' button on the console like it was his job. The birthday card he wrote said "get outta my dreams and into my car" and he called his beat-up old car the "pussy wagon." The time that we really knew each other was short-- but quality. Every time I saw him at the theater, or around town, he was ready with a big hug, a smile, and his brawny wit. I too loved spotting him on tv because it made me happy to know Philip was getting paid for what he was so brilliant at... He was so unique, and so comfortable in his own skin. As my friend, and another friend of Philip's said: "you can never know what a person's life is truly like. You can know what they do and how they spend some or even much of their time. But you don't ever know the pain some people feel. Deep, constant pain. It's impossible to understand. has got to be one of the greatest mysteries of life - how someone can get to such a low place where they do not want to exist in this world anymore."
I just wish I could have seen Philip at least one more time.
I kept thinking of Newbs when I heard this song Skinny Love by Bon Iver and I keep looking at pictures of him, and the amazing things people have said on his facebook page. I wonder if he knew how much people love him. I wonder if it would have changed anything. I put together this little video so some of the images and words would be in one place. My friend Bob and I talked a lot about how weird what happens to someone's facebook page is when they die. I don't know-- for some reason going there has been sort of comforting to me. He was a bright bright light and just thinking of him makes me feel a little brighter.
I just wish I could have seen Philip at least one more time.
I kept thinking of Newbs when I heard this song Skinny Love by Bon Iver and I keep looking at pictures of him, and the amazing things people have said on his facebook page. I wonder if he knew how much people love him. I wonder if it would have changed anything. I put together this little video so some of the images and words would be in one place. My friend Bob and I talked a lot about how weird what happens to someone's facebook page is when they die. I don't know-- for some reason going there has been sort of comforting to me. He was a bright bright light and just thinking of him makes me feel a little brighter.
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