Ride ‘em Cowboy

If you are not female, don’t bother to read on. This is about shoes. Mostly. Sort of. Anyway, men don’t ‘get’ shoes. It’s ok. I don’t get football.

As I eagerly await today’s arrival of my very cool cowboy boots I ordered online, to be delivered by UPS today and which I have been tracking along their journey from Louisville to Houston, I find myself contemplating the sacred in the everyday. (As an aside here, I always mistype ‘sacred’, as ‘scared’. I am sure there is deep meaning in that). I was just now sitting having my favorite peppermint and licorice tea, and I was thinking of when my cool boots get here (did I mention today?), that I will try them on: now, not just any try-them-on, mind you. At first I thought that I’d just throw them on to see if they fit, then I found myself daydreaming about which socks I’d put on for the first try-on, and maybe which skirt, or which whole outfit I’d don before pulling them on, so the first time they are on my feet, I’d get the full effect. Urban Prairie, Boho Tejas, Cowgirl Chic. You get the idea.

There are little things like that in my life I create sacred space around. I guess my new cowboy boots is one. My morning tea is another. A flood of good feelings associated with the indescribable delight of tea washes over me; sort of like memories, but without images. Swinging on a swingset is another. I love that. I still love it and always have loved it. And now that I am a big kid, I have to seek out the really cool park swingsets with the wide rubber strap seats. It just sends me into fits of laughter- especially on the upswing if I extend my arms and lean waaaaaaaaaaaay, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back!

I also hyper-sacredize movies. Going to the movies, really. That is a sacred art space. That’s why I get so pissed when people talk in the movies. It breaks the spell. Movies are meant to draw you in, envelope you, wrap you up in their magic. Rent a movie at home with your pals if you wanna chat about everything you see in it as it goes by. Movies at home are nowhere near as sacred. You’re not in the temple.

Starting and finishing new book is another. I picked up a copy of Neil Gaiman’s ‘Anansi Boys’, and I haven’t started it yet because I haven’t quite found that perfect moment to open it’s cover, smell the woody scent of its paper and the sweetness of its ink…

There seem to be so many (too many) have no sense of the sacred. I feel sorry for them.

As I practice paying attention to the sacred in seemingly mundane activities, I wonder if I can enfold my life in more awe and delight…

Merce

In seeing the Merce Cunningham Company last night, there were so many things that were striking about the performance and the concept of performance itself. It almost seemed like the dancers and musicians didn’t belong in a performing arts center but some other space I couldn’t define. Perhaps outside. Or in an architectural setting not unlike what I imagine the Cistern Chapel to be like where the music for the first piece was recorded: and enormous and abandoned underground 2 million gallon water tank. Wow. Now, that’s some looping.

There was an introspective quality to the work that I had not seen before in dance. I love dance, and have seen lots of dance concerts. I am usually struck by the athleticism and beauty of the movement, and perhaps drawn in by the meaning or story in the dance. Merce’s work was wholly different. He did not seem to have an agenda. I didn’t feel that he was expressing anything specific, outside of what the audience interpreted in the strangely graceful, jolting, fragile, strong, vulnerable and powerful movement that wended its way across the stage in a mesmerizing meditative event. It was the first concert I’d ever seen where the elements of the dance that were separate physically in the space did not compete for attention. I wasn’t asking myself ‘where should I look? I don’t want to miss anything’ or ‘how do these pieces fit together?’ I felt the permission to experience the dance in any way I chose. If a movement, gesture or contact between dancers caught my attention I followed it, and then that would lead me to another dancer, arm, hand, touch, face, jump that I was drawn into.

The seamless integration of recorded music and live musicians was unreal. I have been challenged by that myself in my own work, and seeing the technical mastery of it was inspiring. The players used conch shells blown from the mezzanine as well as shell music blown into the strings of a piano. They used ballet slippers as percussion, and a sound board and computer for who knows what all. Speaks were set up in the mezzanine and sound was coming from everywhere. The presence of the musicians in the pit and mezzanine asked the questions: ‘What is a dancer? What is dance? What is choreography? Where does the dance end and audience begin?’

The English Channel

I wonder if I am singer because no one listened to me as a child. Seriously. I grew up in a household where everyone talked incessantly, never pausing to let anyone else speak. It was like constant monologues going on simultaneously. Except my father, who rarely spoke. I remember my mother chastising me for butting in. Well, how else would I be heard? I’m surprised I didn’t become an elective mute. I did my fair share of talking and screaming, as it were, but I found the real power in my artistic expression. Yes, the obvious is that my early creative propensities came from a need for attention, and it worked. I got attention, and more importantly, everyone was forced to shut up if I was in a play or recital. I remember when I went off to college; I hardly spoke that whole first year. It was blissful. The power of silence, aaahhh...

This is not a poor me tirade. All of that was many years ago, and I have basically come to terms with it, but I remain vigilant to surround myself with friends and colleagues who are genuinely interested in an exchange of energy and ideas.

When I think of the nature of singing, one thing that comes to mind is not only the obvious power of music, but the power of expression. I think that has less to do with what we say, than how we say it. I love music sung in other languages, and I have several favorite artists who’ve created their own languages to sing, and I have done that myself. For me it is not about understanding the artist and hearing the story, or about creating a story for the audience (and yes, that has a place, and I’ve done that too), but the story is there in the instrument whether a narrator is present or not. I think it is easy to assume that a singer is all about ‘look at me, look at me, listen to what I have to say’, and though there are plenty of those out there, and I’ve been through that a bit myself, (see the above childhood origins of my own singing!)- I’ve grown to experience getting out of my own way, and not being emotionally or egotistically invested in performance or the experience of singing whether performing or not. And here is the cornball, Shirley Maclaine word of the day: Channel. That word brings up so many questions, like :

What is a channel? Dunno (except a body of H2O).

Channel what? Expression?

Answers are overrated anyway. I don’t think I’ve gotten any satisfactory answers to anything, ever.

More importantly it implies being a vessel for something intangible and only experiential. Being open, clear (as in clear-headed, not spooky L. Ron Hubbard clear). Being ready, being possible. Tha's a cool word: possible. Like 'alchemy' from an earlier post.

Is it still a tightrope? Yes. Do I have to be attentive, kindly nudging and reminding myself of these things? Sure. Is it hard? Yes, and that is part of the fun. Carry water. Chop wood. It is a practice. Wait. It is a Practice, with a capitol ‘P’.

And what am I expressing? Being alive.

Breathe, inspire...

My inbox was infiltrated last night by an unwelcome, unwanted and personally attacking email. Considering that I can occasionally, and rarely these days, be emotionally, how shall we say, ‘explosive’, I think I handled it all pretty well. I wanted to lash out in as scathing, hurtful, malicious and destructive way as I could muster and fume over every word of what I imagined to become a constant volley of hate mail, with myself ever triumphant, witty and cutting, reducing my opponent to a minuscule, insignificant blithering idiot. I would be ever victorious!

I didn’t do any of that. I did create a nice little Outlook rule to permanently delete any further incoming correspondence from the person so I wouldn’t even see it. Not a super satisying 'Take that!' moment. Yet, for me, amazing. Funny that I should actually be proud of that restraint. I imagine my Perfect Self would not respond any other way, it would be natural, unthinkable even, to do so. I am flagellating myself for not being more above it all, more graceful and more compassionate (I honestly question if I know what compassion is. That will be for a later exploration). I have a little moment of triumph, where I do not give in to my baser instincts and though I ought to be satisfied, I feel it wasn’t enough. Telling. Like nothing is ever enough no matter how right, big, noble, or fabulous the effort. But, clearly, I do not completely believe that.

Ok, breathe. I am just now, well over twelve hours after the incident (like it was some physical attack, and indeed, did feel like one) reminding myself to breathe. Take a breath in. Let it out. Pause. Wow. Twelve hours, and I am just realizing now I need to take a time-out.

Happiness!:
The new baby kitty, Herr Schauzer-biter (named for the obvious propensity implied), splashed around happily in the just-showered in tub this morning. That is joyous and gratitude—inspiring. Love it!

Plus I’ve just read some amazing stuff from Trey Gunn’s site that puts things inspiringly into perspective. If we are all not here to inpsire each other, than why? More later…

Rumplestiltskin

Spinning flax into gold. Those words just popped out of my mouth last nite while sharing libations with a friend. I don't often search for the reasons I do what I do in my creative life (as though I can make a delineation between my 'creative self' and my 'other self'. What other self?). I am uncommonly uncomfortable speaking about myself and my work. I figure if the work is doing its thing, it will speak for itself.

I am beguiled and entranced by beauty. Yes, often beauty that has become standard: classically beautiful works of art and music, virtuosic expressions available only to those disciplined and focused enough to put the time into the work for the alchemical process to happen (alchemical, alchemy. That is such a cool word. That is my new word. Thank you, MaryBeth!). I admit to not liking disharmony and dissonance in my life, at least not more that what can provide contrast. I cannot relate to the expression of disharmony for its own sake, or holding the artistic mirror up to reflect the hideousness that is all too prevalent in our world. Ok, so I am not that kind of artist. I am not fashionably provocative or edgy in my work. I do not have a political or social agenda to express artistically. Do I have political and social options? Am I appalled by the violence and horror that exists in the world? Certainly. Do I choose to express or reflect that in my work? No. So, the result is that my work isn't sexy. Giving myself permission to be as I am is part of the process.

The pattern of my self-expression through music, dance, performance and art has, in part, been an escape from what I perceive as the ugliness in my life and my inability to tolerate that: my family dysfunction, relationship challenges, self-worth as an artist. Admittedly, I hear Narcissus the American saying, 'Ooooooh, that is ugly and uncomfortable. Put it in the closet, sweep it under the rug, wall it off. Ghettoize'. However, there is catharsis in my work, not compartmentalization (ok, so I carry that a bit as well). But there is transformation. That which I struggle with is the flax the discipline of self-expression spins into gold. The pursuit of excellence (what is that?), and the time spent at the forge not only increases my skill in a practical way, but transmutes the mud into wine. Hopefully and eventually. My current manta is 'it is not a matter of if, only when'.