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When we met you were filled with fireworks,
Brimming with brilliant displays Of the red of your temper, Of the green of your eyes, Bright enough to illuminate all the beauty that my heart was too young to have seen, And I was drawn like a firefly to a mystical glow. But you were spitting pinwheels to make yourself seem bigger than you are, Because there are two blazes at home who love to use you as tinder. You fed on the flames that forged you, and that fire made you strong, But it left your insides blistered and burning, A constant conflagration that you can’t help but spout. And I know That a lifetime of bearing your future has cracked you at your seams, And I know You think you're strong enough to bear it (and if anyone can, it's you) But when you add the expectations of generations The straw becomes an anvil And even the strongest camel has no chance. So I beg you, Melt my heart. Let me seep into the fissures in your soul. Let me make you whole. Though you reduced it to slag, And though it’s not yours anymore, I'll pick through the pieces of my heart And see what I can salvage.
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IMPRESSIONS 1
I remember when Kentucky would get snow. I once took a ruler out to the picnic table for an accurate accounting of our accumulation, and we had eight whole inches. That no longer seems impressive after years in the Midwest, but remember, this is the South we’re talking about. I built an igloo. It was magical. (Weirdly, Kentucky’s gotten a lot of snow in recent years—just a few weeks ago, ten inches fell on my hometown. What the heck.) Ice was the bigger danger. When I was young we had an ice storm harsh enough to crack the mulberry tree in our backyard in half. In high school we lost power for a week when an especially bad one tore through. In the eerily silent darkness, I remember the trees clicking like windchimes, like an audience of crystalline fingers snapping. I’m 8 years old. It’s breakfast time, and I want another scone. Mom says no, I get upset, I’m sent to my room. I break the drywall above my bed with my head.
It’s my first day in a new school. I’m awkward, timid, reserved: fresh meat. A belligerent classmate dares me to say ‘Fuck.’ I try to ignore him; silence is the easiest form of resistance. He persists until the teacher comes in. It means nothing to him. It stains the rest of my day. I’ve just had a small tiff with my girlfriend and I’m pissed and sulky. My friends and I are going out. In the stairwell one of them throws a friendly taunt. I grab his throat and trap him against the wall for a split second before my senses return. I’m falling asleep next to my S.O. My hand creeps up and rests over her breast, just rests. It feels good to have someone to hold. I’m walking to the museum with my country-mouse cousin. In the big city I feel especially protective. A solicitor comes up and presses a newspaper on us, insistent. I lash out and slap it out of his hand. We need to talk about our boys. There’s an old Asian man by the library
In a blue coat, with wrinkled eyes And smile lines to his liver spots. I see him on Mondays, Perked up and a little peckish, And we wave. It started as nothing, A glance as I passed, A manner survived from the South. Then, One day, Contact. Eyes meet. Easy grin. We see each other. Now, it’s almost like we’re friends. Presences passing, something familiar, something solid. One day, I fear, he won’t come out, My buddy. Every Monday I almost ask his name But my podcasts and pumping feet pull me on. That shouldn’t stop me But it does. I cannot count the cookies I’d make him If only I knew his taste. That shouldn’t stop me But it does. I think the day I dread has come. I haven’t been seen in months. I hope it’s just the cold Or a broken elevator Or a new connection. I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s basking on a beach Smile lines to his sunglasses Liver spots under a light sunburn With his top three buttons undone. And then I hope to see him again. This year, y’all. This. Damn. Year. 2016 was downright malicious, from heartbreaking celebrity deaths to gut-twisting celebrity ascensions, from miscarriages of justice to the wholesale slaughter of hundreds. In America, from across the globe, the bad news just kept pouring in. As news goes, it was clearly headed for the record books.
And then 2017 said “Hold my beer.” I prefer to give bad news first. Here it comes. My 2017 retrospective begins with some of the tragedies, in no particular order. This is the fifth installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art.
As with all great journeys, you begin at the bottom. Kneepads, lanterns, and a handful of sparkling alabaster stones rest neatly arranged at the base of a long and murky stairwell, gifts for the road ahead. Darkness stretches in front of you; only one way forward. A glance at your partner; the cricket-click as your lamp ignites; you ascend. The door was shut, and no invitation was coming. Mama dabbed sweat from her brow and soothed the children to comfort herself. Papa was silent. They had reached a threshold they could not cross, and the words of the New Colossus rang bitter and empty. Baby cried. Mama cooed. Papa stared at the locks on the golden door.
Parasite, the burghers spat. Bloodsucker, Freeloader, Leech; but the masses huddled on the stoop had not asked for their thirst. Their water had been poisoned, their manors razed, their fields salted and burned by fires kindled by the suburbanites who now sneered at their plight. They had endured an odyssey on a promise and a dream and the rusted bones of a bus, only to be frustrated by a false word, a friendly hand rescinded, and a thin band of running water. The hypocrisy stung, stank, like garlic rubbed in a fresh wound. Scrub rustled in the darkness and Papa tensed. Their guide slunk into the firelight, face twisted in a lupine leer, and led the clan to a box truck and a stack of crates. In, he growled. Blackness enshrouded them, close and hot, and as their casket lids were nailed shut. Mama clutched her rosary. Prayers were all they had left. Is it just me, or is news today happening faster than before? Contemporary calamities are treated like contestants on America’s Got Talent, giving their all in the spotlight before they’re buzzed off in favor of the next national crisis. So this post is a little late, but not by long. And who knows? It may soon blunder back into the headlines. Today’s topic: Nazis, and punching them.
In the days before jungle gyms and lunchboxes and math, I made bread with Mother. She possessed secrets of the sort only entrusted to Mothers and would add and mix and coax the flour and water and sugar and yeast into delightful doughy harmony. I was her capable assistant, grabbing and passing whatever my tiny arms could reach, or tramping around the kitchen when I got bored. Trust me, I was indispensable.
When it came time to knead, two thumbprints formed eyes and a long fold formed a mouth, and the ball of dough became a friend. Tip-toed on a stool so I could peer above the floured counter, he and I bantered back and forth before he was rolled up, laid out, and reformed. I think his name was usually George. George was destined for a fiery end, but even at that young age my mind had enough foresight not to mourn his passing as he slid into the oven. He was meant for greater things, and he and I would meet again on another weekend afternoon. During his metamorphoses I built castles in the gravel of our driveway, fought orcs and goblins on the hill of our side yard, and sneakily scaled the side of our porch on secret missions with secret agendas, but I never strayed far from the kitchen door while the oven was on; wander away and the aroma would go woefully unappreciated. And when Mother finally called, I would run in for a slice of the nutty brown loaf, soft and warm and buttered. Ambrosia. I’m in transition.
This isn’t a new thing for me or my peers or, dare I say it, for anybody. Our lives aren’t composed of neat narrative arcs; we exist, rather, in a persistent state of constant, inescapable flux. We can strive for stability—I certainly do—but stable and static are not the same thing. To demonstrate the ubiquity of this situation, place yourself, for a moment, in the diamond-soled shoes of the Cullinan Diamond. Weighing in at over 3,000 carats, you are the largest known specimen of the hardest Earthly substance. It took over a billion years for the lithospheric inferno to forge you and force you through a hundred miles of magma and bedrock to the surface. After such a stressful and monumental journey, you’d be forgiven for taking a knee for a few billion more, wiping the sweat from your scintillating brow, and thanking the stars that your trials were at an end—except, of course, that your transformation wasn’t done. This is the fourth installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art.
Darkness envelops you, the only illumination a low slice of red cutting across the stage, casting the suspended figure in harsh scarlet relief. His feet rest in rope loops just a few inches above the floor, head hanging on his bare chest, hands gripping his tethers. You and your classmates shuffle in, halting a decent distance away, and his gaze slowly rises to meet yours. Part 1
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Sunday, June 18 7:00 AM: Do you think alarms ever get fed up with doing the same thing every day? Does it fulfill some sense of purpose? Whatever the answer, mine still likes me enough to wake me up, for which I am grateful. I prepare to jog. 7:03 AM: Roomie sleeps in again. Ah well. I’ve got my podcasts to keep me company. 7:05 AM: One last time I pound the pavement. The air is cool and perfectly humid. 7:09 AM: You know, I think I’m finally getting back into this ‘running’ thing. 7:13 AM: As I cross the final bridge, I decide to do an extra little loop. I’m feelin’ good about this. 7:16 AM: See? That was fine. Go you. You get some chocolate later. One last time I push and pull myself up to complete my morning workout. 7:23 AM: Shower. 7:31 AM: Breakfast. The last of my greens, the bottom of my yogurt, my only remaining egg. 7:50 AM: I return to my room and pack up my things. Today’s schedule is a tad more accelerated than the rest of the weekend. I wanna get this morning going. 8:18 AM: Okay, I think that’s everything. I double-check and triple-check, because I’d rather not forget my keys or laptop in North Carolina. Love you, NC, but I don’t plan on returning anytime soon. Part 1
Part 2 Part 3 Saturday, June 17 7:00 AM: My phone wakes up, and yells at me to put it back to sleep. I groggily oblige it. I do not offer myself the same courtesy, instead donning my running gear. 7:06 AM: After a stop by the bathroom and the water fountain, once more I head to the top of the hill for my run. My roommate opted to stay in bed today. I can’t exactly blame him. 7:08 AM: Shush, legs. You did this yesterday and you were fine. You’ll be okay. 7:11 AM: You’ll be fine. Shush. Shuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush. 7:17 AM: Another strong finish across the bridge. I do few sets of bodyweight shenanigans, paying no mind to the cargo-shorted, Birkenstocked Quakers often found at this time of morning. 7:30 AM: I feel less sticky than yesterday (though I’ll always be tacky). Still, a shower is undoubtedly warranted. It’s marvelous. 7:36 AM: And once more, over to the SAYF dorm for breakfast. It’s the same fare as yesterday; mixed greens, yogurt and oats and banana, and a hardboiled egg (Mom cooked and brought the eggs for me, as well as a little Ziploc bag with some salt; I love her). My food remains uneaten by the ravenous teens. I count it a small miracle. 7:55 AM: I sling my pack over my shoulder and wander down to the main building. I still have hours before the morning starts (today is much the same as yesterday; variations on a theme), but I have some work I can do. #productive Part 1
Part 2 Friday, June 16 7:00 AM: Phone does the ding-a-ling thing. I chase the leftover sleep from my eyes, slide into shorts and a tank top, and don my running shoes. 7:03 AM: My roommate follows suit. He’s gonna be my buddy this morning. 7:12 AM: After some short stretches and warm-ups, we hit the pavement. 7:13 AM: Mountains are hard. 7:16 AM: Hills do nasty things to your calves. Ergh. 7:19 AM: We pull a strong finish across the bridge and commence with exercises. Yoga for him, bodyweight shenanigans for me. 7:27 AM: My skin’s tacky. Ick. I take a shower. 7:40 AM: It’s my favorite time: breakfast time. I saunter over to the SAYF dorm, munch some greens, mix a little parfait, and roll out a hardboiled egg. I eat it outside. The morning is peaceful. 7:58 AM: My morning activities don’t start for a couple hours. I wander to the main building and check Facebook, work on some creative projects, and see if anybody I know wanders by. 8:25 AM: Nobody has wandered by and I’m still tired; 9 hours of sleep apparently wasn’t enough to make up for my marathon the last two days. 8:31 AM: I set a timer and lay down for a quick nap. 9:31 AM: Ding-a-ling. I rouse myself. Better. Much better. Continued from Dawn of the First Day
Thursday, June 15 8:03 AM: The car re-arrives at Warren Wilson, for good this time. Registration doesn’t open for a couple hours; we settle in the student lounge. Dad and I share some YouTube. 8:42 AM: Mom and Dad leave to do important things. I, too, do important things—I lay down and close my eyes, utilizing the super-comfiness of the lounge couches (a quality I like to call nap-titude). 9:48 AM: I rouse myself and stumble to the registration table; it’s open now. Key—received. Keycard—acquired. Perfect. I’m here for SAYMA, the annual gathering of the Southern Appalachian Yearly Meeting Association. It’s a four-day Quaker convention. I’ve written before about my time with SAYF; this is its parent organization. My little brother is graduating from SAYF this year, and there’s a strong tradition of the Young Adult Friends (YAFs; we Quakers love our acronyms) welcoming the graduates into our fold. It matters that I’m here, to him and to me, especially since I was part of the same community. 10:02 AM: Now that I can get into the YAF dorm, I lug my suitcase and backpack and pillow and breakfast into my room. My roommate has already set up camp on one bed—turns out he was a few years behind me in SAYF. He’s not there right now, but I make a mental note. I claim the other bunk and unpack. Wednesday, June 14
5:30 AM: My phone emits a jocular jingle, rousing me from slumber. I plant my feet on the floor and get with the business of going to work. 5:36 AM: Pants belted. Shirt on. Teeth brushed. Keys and wallet—check, check. I lock the door on my way out. The sun is already up. When did that become a thing this early? 5:45 AM: I arrive at work. I’m the first one there (as always); my sense of discipline shimmies proudly. My co-worker arrives a bit later. 8:13 AM: Our mid-shift support rolls in. She only works until 2. I’m not bitter. I’m not bitter at all. 9:15 AM: Mr. Dubious-Diet orders his regular salad, the one with all the toppings and quadruple the rolls. Hgggggggggggggh. It’s 9:15 in the morning. Please don’t make me do this yet. Please don’t make me do this at all. 2:08 PM: The closers arrive and our mid-shift heads out. I have two hours left at work, and miles after that before I sleep. It’s gonna be a looooooooooooooong day. I’ve been really busy this month, between Illyria and a family visit and working more than usual, so I don’t have a full blog post. But, loyal readers, y’all still deserve something. Here are some moments and memories that gave me life this month.
There are more moments that passed too quickly to register or were steamrolled by subsequent sorrows. The more I focus on picking out bright spots in the daily drivel, though, the more I see. Sometimes it seems I live in a fractal of joys. That sense of wonderment, though, is twinned by an insidious worry that I'm fooling myself into complacency. Perhaps finding solace in frozen berries with off-brand whipped cream is trite. Maybe I am doomed to eternal contentment, my full potential never realized. But ya know, there are far worse fates. I’d rather be at peace with my lesser things than pace my penthouse floor at night. I’m young, I’m fit, I’ve got pep in my step and a brand new v-neck. Things will only get better from here. Of the three popularly cited pillars of a successful, well-balanced life—Work, Friends, and Sleep—which is the most important? Perhaps that query isn’t framed quite right; the whole concept of balance implies equal significance. To approach the question from a different angle, then, which is abandoned most often? To my eye, Sleep is most frequently neglected. It’s easy to see why: Work and Friends require concrete commitments, and the moment something is scheduled is the moment it registers as an imperative. Rarely do we give Sleep that courtesy. It doesn’t by its nature require the same level of habitual attention.
Over the last few years I’ve gotten better at looking at my habits on their own merits, rather than from an outside, ‘objective’ standard. I still hold the door because it’s polite, I say “Please” and “Thank you” as small exercises in compassion. But my private habits, the ones that don’t involve anyone else, I’ve by and large stopped judging them based on what some invisible observer might think. I’m fortunate in my capacity to ignore those absent eyes, though they certainly governed my behavior for years. A recent episode of Hidden Brain, NPR’s psychology podcast, put this into relief for me. A couple weeks ago they reran an old cast called “Creature Comforts,” which considers the power of touch. I’m gonna hit the highlights (so spoiler warning, I guess?), but I highly recommend listening to it yourself. There’s a lot of detail and nuance I’ll be leaving out. Right. Okay. Here we go. Just a heads up, this is gonna be a different kind of post. Most of my posts are narrative, stories of past exploits to give y’all a fuller picture of me as an artist and human being. This… this one is different. See, ever since Trump started taking actions as president I’ve felt this twisting inside me as his administration takes aim at one minority population after another. During the past eight years I could forgive myself for letting marginalized peoples lead the charge for their own liberation and waving my liberal pom-poms from the sidelines, confident that our nation was headed in the right direction, that strides would be made. Suffice to say, that doesn’t cut it for me anymore. I apologize in advance for the impending privilege whinge. There’s a lot on my mind.
This is the third installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art. As with the last piece featured in this series, this performance was tailored for an audience of one.
There are many feelings and activities intrinsic to the collegiate library, and many which are taboo. Focus, not distraction. Peace, not disruption. Despair, not mirth. Everything has its proper place and upsetting that order earns piercing glares and punitive tsks. So it goes with Burling Library, a squat grey brick of a building with an adorable addition reminiscent of a top hat. You weave your way through the stacks to an open study area at the rear of the first floor, taking a chair placed for you between two shelves. You survey the room for a short second, wondering for a moment how the students with their brows in their books will behave once the antics commence, before movement flickers in your peripheral vision. The performance has begun. Doug’s face at that moment twisted into an expression of a very particular fear. It wasn’t the creeping dread awakened by a shadow at the door, nor the oppressive settling of a weighty comprehension, nor the steeling of the gut that precedes a fated appointment. It was the panic felt when, in the space of a breath, your confident footing slips and you suddenly speed downhill towards icy waters. In that short spell when you see control still within your reach, before you realize that you perceive only its afterimage and that it has, in fact, already left the state, you too would grimace in an involuntary and ineffectual attempt to maintain your poise. Not unlike poor Douglas.
That’s not a metaphor—Doug really was about to fall chest-first into a lake. Well, it is a metaphor, but I’ll come back to that. First, the story of how we got to that point. This year, y’all. This. Damn. Year. I’m sure many of you have seen this season’s cathartic finale of Last Week Tonight. He and his team manage to capture exactly how I feel about leaving this pisspot of a year, and his blistering homage is unbelievably cathartic. At least, I found it so. For any Rip van Winkles in the audience who missed the last 12 months, here’s a shortlist of some of the many heartbreaks that rattled the world.
I start this installment of Stories From The Strange Side with a short preface: this performance was created for an audience of one and crafted to make the most out of that shift in the performer-audience relationship. The contract has changed. Proceed, informed.
The theatre lobby is empty when you arrive. No performer, no seating; it doesn’t look like anything has been changed at all. Looking around, your gaze falls upon a note taped to the floor, inscribed with an arrow, pointing to another and another beyond; it appears your intrepid host has left a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow. Seems you’ll have to work for this performance. As I’m writing this morning, sipping my coffee with Beirut in my ears, the Windy City is living up to its moniker. I always feel reenergized when the weather cools and I break out my fall attire. I want to wander feeling the crisp breeze on my cheeks, seeing the trees glow with their own autumn wardrobe, gazing over the steely waters of Lake Michigan whipped into choppy white-capped waves. I want to sit inside with warm muffins and tea and blankets and watch the wind blow. It’s a time for friends, for love and for loved ones, when community comes together to prepare for the winter months. And as I’m writing this morning, my mind wanders through the annals of memory to a place and people that are forever connected with feelings of intimacy and f(F)riendship.
This is the first installment of a series of posts I’m calling Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art. You wait with your classmates outside the green room. The seconds tick by without marker, a soft hum sneaking out from behind the closed door. Feet shuffle, gazes shift as the waiting continues. Shuffle, shuffle, shift. Finally, the hum stops and the electronic cry of a microwave calls you to enter; the performance will begin now. The professor opens the door, which creaks slightly—maintenance should really get on that—and the class files into the darkness beyond. In the seconds before the door shuts, you’re struck by the emptiness of the small room before -click- the closing door cuts off the light from the hall, leaving you in blackness. Once more the seconds tick by without marker, save your classmates’ breathing. He entered, where is he, room’s empty did I miss something. Doubts begin to run through your head but, dear viewer, they are soon put to rest. With a pop, a cold white light shoves back the shadows as the refrigerator door eases opens, revealing the curled, white-clad form of your lost classmate in his KitchenAid cryogenic pod. He steps out carefully, tentatively, peering with fresh eyes, and pads his way to an orange and pocketknife arranged on the table. Cast in harsh contrast by the frigid illumination, he kneels before the table, unfurls the knife’s sturdy blade, and with cruel precision incises the fleshy fruit once, twice, and shoves a whole slice into his mouth. A moment passes, and he raises his eyes to yours. His lips pull up in an orange-peel grin and, suddenly animated, he sprints out of the room, the hall’s warmth flashing for a moment before he leaves you behind, truly alone. Prompt: Introduce yourself to the class. You may not use words. Discovery: I can fit inside a standard fridge, so long as I think curly thoughts. |
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