Waving at Satellites

And, Here We Are

2011-09-14T23:26:00.000-07:00

It offers itself in strange chunks

and has no

math equation for me to hug.

It's made me foolish. I slosh in the same pattern each day.

It's the farting dog on the carpet or

the asinine purchase

that rests

crookedly

on the edge of counters.

It's finding asinine

snuggled between "absurd" and "brainless".

I am made of more than this.

I am made of northernness.

Forgotten materials droop silently at ankles

waiting for the racing heart or burst of bucket.

I am foolish. I strain my head to see bits of light and colour through hands on face.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Back and Forth

2010-12-18T12:39:00.000-08:00

While the frigid power line sways

back and forth

through bits of mist and crow dung,

things change dramatically.

My belly has no borders,

but

it wishes to slam its flag into

streets that burst with mouths and feet.

The heart that holds this crooked grey sky

is not mine,

but

my pumping blood

does not know where to buy its plot and rest its head for good.

While belly and blood shift

back and forth

through anxious waves of breath,

the frigid power line sways.

And things change dramatically.

While Staring Inappropriately Into Windows

2010-03-11T00:33:00.000-08:00

I look down and see
hands, arms, shoes.
Goopy eyes
trap renegade lashes.
I count time
by throbbing metronomes
in base of skull and
crook of neck.

A woman sits
in her window
and caresses a lamp
with her hair.
Front door light
frames crooked coat
and springtime Santa.

The lint on my collar
tickles the stars.
Renegade lash makes a run for it.

Before I Forget

2010-02-22T21:10:00.000-08:00

1. Strange gap between head-fur creates illusion of stubborn hair or salon product left in from night before. This manifests unsightly split in hairdo that screams free-spirit or neurotic genius in the midst of discovery. Fur-gap moves according to different states of leisure. Disturbing fur-gap gap guarantees a swipe to knuckle.

2. Upon calling her name, a grunt of recognition, similar to that of an old man's, exits her throat.

3. Arms fold under body.

4. Talking about cat is ridiculous. Writing poem about cat is ludicrous.

I live my life through peripheral vision

2009-11-18T22:34:00.000-08:00

One (Breakfast):
My cork-board calendar rests against a line of dirty coffee mugs. It's a congregation of forgotten breakfasts, sitting conveniently in a bunker of dates that go unnoticed. I jam mugs into place after slamming feet into socks, ripping brushes through hair, throwing gloves across room, and winding watch out of joint. Dead skin takes its last gasp as I flurry my way through narrow staircase.

Two (Lunch):
Red blur of drink machine pierces through door jams and haircuts. Waving arms and gargling voices make their way past my temple. Molasses-filled shoes kick the back of lost heels. And we might as well start spinning now, making our way sideways through vicious tunnels that claw our feet and hands and face. I perch on steel seats that will be found in a long row, stuck under sneakers.

Three (End):
I live my life through peripheral vision. Ceiling tiles bring me comfort. Snoring television nudges my feet.

This Chest of Mine

2009-09-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

The back alley tilted me sideways.
The tips of your fingers
and the bow of your voice
hit my chest covered in
petrified eyeball backs and throats.

Dust from this hardened trunk
raised momentarily.
I could feel the words
engraved so deeply.

And a moment of yes,
a moment of finally,
and a moment of slapping the guts in my face.

Brow

2009-06-06T09:41:00.000-07:00

I attach heavy drapes to my forehead,
stolen from a 14,000,000 year old house.

They make simple tasks difficult:
reaching for cans,
walking in alleys,
holding up lids.

But, the cats still climb them.
The toddlers continue to spin in their velvet arms.
The wind spits at their folds.

The Typical Blur

2009-05-24T13:39:00.000-07:00

Fragile eyes
stand delicately on the corner of 104 street -
draining their dripping beard,
resting their head against red brick.
They close to young men with monkey hearts
who embrace each other with violent fingers.

Monkey hearts
tie themselves together with blindfolds –
tripping, screaming, beating their fists,
staring at young shoes who clomp,
spin and squeal.

Clomping shoes press skin to skin,
waiting for lights to change.
They talk in high-pitched slurs
and wave at cars that honk and jerk forward.

Honking cars,
thankful for a glimpse of bra strap and belly,
creep through broken eyelids,
slouch on wheels that vibrate,
reflecting street against steep heels.

The street licks its mysterious wounds -
caressing smashed garbage cans,
tilted newspaper boxes,
weary footprints,
exploding pavement.

Everything is liquid and glass -
hanging from telephone poles,
as darkness falls and clutches.

The night begs to be over.

Surrealist Games

2009-05-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

I Pull a Poem Out of a Hat (Late-night Television)

The gorgeous galaxy walked down the aisle.
It was the only weapon
we could use
after filling our annual hockey quotient.
A thousand rocks
flew like confetti
on the steps of the moon -
And the goopy disco ball
oozed light all over the dancing planets.

Viva la Pube(rty)

As the eggs boil for breakfast,
the awkward teen pulls up his pants and socks.
They do not reach waist and ankle, but continue to climb higher and higher
higher and higher
until the belt loops cross the border into Canada.
"Oh Bats!" says the awkward teen.
The border patrol raises his eyebrows and says, "We say Rats in Canada, son."

Body Knows Best

2008-03-03T12:58:00.000-08:00

The bridge of my nose has
a hangover -
A line of white panties dances
in my cheeks while a
coughbangringhello
is heard in the next room.

My foot is asleep, but it's not
actually asleep; it's hiding.
A lady runs with scissors
in a deep well.
Her legs soak in oil.
She kicks up her heels. She
sprays my foot. She clucks
at the wall.

Don't tell anyone, okay?

okay
okay
okay
okay
okay

My eyes are weak.
My heart hurts.

Balloon Wedding - Cincinnati USA

2008-01-31T00:10:00.000-08:00

Two hours before:

With my head in my hands, I squeeze my insides with all my might, trying to remove the lump in my stomach, trying to gush all over the dirt. Nothing. Just a hollow feeling that comes from emotional purgatory - me lying in the garden with a face full of flowers. I hear tiny dogs panting, ancient and uncomfortable laughter, my own stunted breath, the sun pounding my back.

I had dreamt this before: the large woven basket that somehow flies via fire and ballooned fabric. In a hot air balloon, nothing keeps you from falling but cables and twine. On solid ground, nothing keeps me from falling but my own two legs. My clumsy insides do not keep me upright. They throw me around like a forgotten ship, waves pounding my eyes, making it impossible to walk a straight line. Two days earlier I had read the following, carved into a table: “But baby, it’s the waves that let you know the ocean’s alive.” I read it, blinked twice and walked away.

Between the basket and me, I see an ocean of grass that supports a hundred pairs of expensive shoes. The shoes wander and jump, dance, tap. The shoes hold creatures that laugh with their mouths full of pastries and punch. Some of the shoe-wearing creatures stand off to the side and stare at the ones who laugh; they stare and sway side-to-side. Their shoes look as sad as the creatures they hold upright. I hear a distinct sound that dissolves my thoughts. The bride’s white heels, a size too small, place themselves to the right of my wet forehead.

An hour before:

I gaze upon tiny green dots that are trees, yellow squares of farmers’ fields that look like chunks of bread, and gooey clouds with black bottoms. I am completely helpless, praying to God that I float up to the heavenly princes who languish on majestic clouds that roll away, in a steady and hypnotic rhythm. My hands begin to ache from gripping my bouquet of daisies too tight; the wind laps my eyelids. The bride bends over to sign the marriage license. We make eye contact.

Four months before:

In the dark, we find our way to the piano bench. We hear laughter in the front room - Diane’s cackle pierces the back of my head.

I feel his warm breath on my shoulders. A flat piano key abruptly joins my sighs as I begin to protest; but his soft cheek brushes against my nose. With Martin’s eyelashes grazing my cheek, I feel the room burst into light.

Now:

My bare feet pound the dirt as I run as fast as I can towards a precarious patch of pussy willows. Each time I land, the sloppy ribbon from my puffy hat bounces against my face. I continue to grip my bouquet of daisies with both aching hands, which makes sprinting on uneven ground very difficult.

My legs decide to stop and fall to the ground. Still holding my bouquet, I descend with them and land knee-first on the crumbling road.

Orange light from a tired sun grazes my face. I unstick my hands from my bouquet of daisies and scatter them like a peace offering. Finally, I gush. My gut bursts out of my chest; the sloppy ribbon from my puffy hat still bounces against my eyes.

Diane’s white shoes are beside me, covered in mud and dust. Her hand rests gently on my back.

Yum

2008-01-28T14:51:00.000-08:00

Yum equals:

Orange-flavoured Frisk, while waiting for the bus in a blizzard;

wedge of nectarine from "Fruit Stand" on the way to Bird's Hill Beach;

wine gums;

wine bought in a Parisian grocery store for three euros, after staring at bunches of roses and beautiful babies in berets;

gummy coke bottles and a large coffee;

late-night plate of olives and cheese;

veggie sausage links from Mosaics;

Blueberry Nerds, while delivering flyers on Pine Street;

extra large bag of Sour-Cream n' Cheddar ripple chips, hidden in my bottom drawer;

cherry tomatoes;

maraschino cherry balls;

Mom's shortbread;

Lefse with butter and cinnamon;

pickled herring;

pickled everything;

old Baba sauerkraut.

Again

2008-01-22T23:28:00.000-08:00

The first time I
stifled.

A Monday in summer. Walking to Amy's house, along 96th Street, grossly engrossed and recently impaled, I encounter a silent park in slumber - its head resting lightly on lampposts and night sky. There I see a bench.

My mind propels into Parkallen at dusk. Branches caress noses. Arms on shoulders. Mosquitoes confused by the dangerous scent of chemicals, but still curious - wings hover above heads. Eyes lock. Outline of bodies poised and shaking.

Monday again. Eyes blink and fists clench.

Night sky on 96th Street brings me back to task at hand: Amy's house. Old friends. I panic - my ears bobbing in water, my hands reaching for the brim. My gut's bucket punches my chest, ready to spill on the sidewalk. I bend at the waist in the middle of the street.

But I evaporate, and stand up straight.

And my dry gut proceeds on. Blinders take one last glance at the sleepy park. The mosquito memory dives thousands of yards into nothing. Dry memory. Nothing memory. Fake. Shitty. False. Weak.

All that's left is the swallow in my throat. Stuck halfway and waiting for a cue to be willed into the dry nothing.

I swallow
over and over and over and over and over.

Until my face hits bus window and hot water pours out of my gut's bucket. I admire fuzzy reflections of bus stops until a smile stretches across my face.

Guts and Checklists

2008-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

I remember a time when I looked at the world poetically - shadows at dusk meant more than checklists and deadlines. Wordless language (body, emotional, sensational) captured everything in so-called "ordinary" moments, and these subtleties formed my internal experiences as a young girl. Unwitting glances propelled private moments onto paper by making the ordinary strange - trees, dirty snow on the sidewalk, and a forgotten shoe in the ditch; these banal moments formed the guts in my chest.

My guts are not checklists. The sigh in my chest is not calculable.

Computer Desk (It's Been a Long Time Since I've Been Here)

2007-10-27T00:13:00.001-07:00

I sink into
peripheral junk piles and
napkins with random numbers
that climb over
dripping earrings and crumpled up bills.

The last time I sat in this chair,
I bent sideways,
throwing my head against waltzing fruit flies, while
closing my eyes to remember
a time when I rested my forehead on carpet and
closed my eyes to remember
a time when I rolled down your hills
with my eyes closed. But that’s all changed now.

I speak with the imaginary panel,
balancing on the balls of her feet.
We are alone and quiet,
shattering windows with
cracking knee joints. They know exactly what we’re up to.

I wrestle my thumbs away from my eyes.

Nothing like Carpeted Walls to Remind You that Everything is Okay

2007-10-20T17:26:00.000-07:00

Madly madly madly
spinning through paper,
head clicking along -
frontal lobe wades through corn syrup and tall grass,
as feet slam floor.
Woman in pants suit stands in front of a
glowing coke can -
sound of rejected metal.
"Stupid machine" she whispers
and I judge her for stabbing an inanimate object
with murmurs and clenched fists while
my feet make mince meet
of trodden tile.
Hurry hurry hurry
to the elevator.
Dodge,
weave,
glide,
dart,
close,
sigh,
wait...
Cerebellum bounces lightly on carpeted walls -
(twenty year-old sensation
of rocking back and forth on thick blankets,
staring at goosebumps,
sucking on arm hair.)
Hands feel carpet
and cheeks follow -
eyelashes rubbing on thick brown threads.
Bell rings.
Door opens.

Should be should be should be

2007-10-15T18:58:00.000-07:00

There is a constant buzz of distant traffic. My ancient computer whirs itself into exhaustion, interrupted by random grinding and spitting.

Trapped in caverns of yellow liquid, a cast of miniature actors shoot a movie in my head. Once again, they've shut down an entire block in my brain and turned it into Chicago in the late 1930s. The movie shows on late-night television, right after the infomercial for the meat grinder and the fruit juicer.

My audience scrapes ice in the parking lot. A ghost light sits precariously on the bed, holding a flashlight under its chin, and paints my slumber with buckets of red.

Nose on Glass

2007-10-15T18:52:00.000-07:00

She didn't know I was watching her from my apartment window. She walked, stopped, spun in a circle, gazed at a bush for a very long time, threw her face to the crooked birch, grabbed her back pack straps with her thumbs -

she smiled

smiled
smiled
smiled

then pulled up her ratty corduroy pants

and walked across the parking lot.

Memory: Part One

2007-07-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been thinking about memory.

Memory is:
elusive
liquid
inopportune
indomitable
fragmented
fleeting
skewed
romantic
dramatic
benign
uncontrollable

Memories are fleeting fragments that place themselves at the front of your head or up and to the right of your forehead. They seep, flash, sink, surface and bubble; and like spirits, memories are conjured. Sometimes, like a hoax at a slumber party seance, they appear inaccurate and skewed - faces bulge, perspective distorts and bodies float. An elementary school gym appears overwhelmingly massive in a childhood memory and tiny in reality. This is due to the interpretation of the space at the time of initial digestion. In her first encounter, the tiny child strains her neck to peer at the high high ceiling.

Conversely, the adult teacher, who has digested the space over and over again does not "see" it anymore. The space becomes a familiar surrounding or sensation, rather than a visual curiosity. The feeling of the gym stays long after the space disappears from the physical experience; and, before this "feeling" can surface, the daily physical encounter with this gym creates a sense of alienation. Why? Because a surrounding can become so familiar, it is foreign. Every day, the teacher sees the same wood grain of the gym floor, the same school banner, the same water fountain, stage, rope, mat and basketball hoop. Eventually, the constant reminder of this space creates a numbness, or an emotional separation from the space itself. Perhaps the teacher then leaves the school and does not return for many years. Upon her return, she cautiously peers into the school gym that invaded her daily life. She sees the familiar and is suddenly overwhelmed by a recognizable feeling that lives deep in her gut. She was not even aware of its existence until that moment.

The Ever-Confusing Construction of Self Image

2007-07-06T12:25:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been surfing internet sites dedicated to building self-esteem. I was curious whether any of these sites that promise an "extraordinary life," or "a time to shine," or "the ultimate confidence boost" had valid insight into the ever-confusing act of self-assessment. I completed a self-esteem assessment quiz, made especially for women that asked questions like "How do you feel about your body?" and "When I go shopping I feel a) Completely comfortable b) Somewhat confident c) Indifferent d) A little nervous e) Totally horrified" According to this quiz, my self-esteem rating is at 58%, as in, I am only utilizing 58% of my confidence capacity. I downloaded my free full-length report that would go into every detail of why I wasn't at the recommended 75% self-esteem capacity, dissecting every header of my life: Looking After Yourself, Striving for a Sense of Security, Creating a Positive Self-Image, Fostering Good Relationships, Developing Social and Work Confidence.

In a personalized letter to me, I read this excerpt:"Now that you've already made the decision to take the first step by downloading this free eReport, you'll find that you can make very rapid early progress by working through the Self-esteem Starter Pack that we can prepare for you. However, permanent and robust changes to your self-esteem can take more than just a few days to "bed-in" and become a solid part of your identity. Given the specific issues we've identified for you Clarice, I recommend that you make a real commitment to work with us to improve your self-esteem over a period of about three to six months."After reading through my free personalized e-report, I found no solace, nor advice. I found many recommendations to order "Self-Esteem eWorkbooks" that would help me, in apparently three to six months, to finally "challenge my inner critic" and "celebrate success." I was told over and over again that if I just purchased these few workbooks, I would become extraordinary and fabulous in no time.

In acting school, there was a fundamental class on mask technique which included "Neutral Mask." I found neutral mask to be one of the most difficult lessons in acting training because it was all about letting go. In neutral mask, the actor removes comments, unessential gestures, past regrets, future goals and false emotion. We were taught that if you feel an emotion arise, let it go and if it returns, let it go again and if it comes back for a third incarnation, it is real. All of our gestures and stances were simple, essential and universal – no slouching, shuffling, tapping toes, rolling eyes. Every gesture was pure and necessary. After understanding (never mastering) neutral mask, I felt more confidence and centeredness than anyone giving me a hockey-sock of advice on how to be. Every ounce of confidence came from within and there was no end goal, nor promise of "three to six months" to obtain an understanding of self.

In any attempt to gain a victorious sense of knowledge or self, I am always amazed that my most glorious moments are when I feel confused, naked and in the thick of a journey, rather than while placing a trophy on a mantel or accepting applause.

Moving Backwards

2007-06-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

Today:

Can we really chose to be happy?

Spin around on cement and -
there stands two buildings that glow the most perfect red,
my rotting apple core lays forgotten by the bike racks,
heads full of hair bob up and down on sunset patio,
the waitress hates me.

Last night:

I am mourning my computer that I chased through the apartment
with a kitchen knife.

He had it coming.

How do I chose to be happy?

A website scolds me for my lack of confidence.
How did it know?
I am one of a million hits.
Somehow I feel like it speaks right at my eyes.
My personality test comes back negative.

Clippity Clop

2007-06-18T01:16:00.001-07:00

Ok. Here we go again. Time to force myself to write a poem.....

Okey-doke. Go -

GO!!!

She had a crooked little smile
that could not diguise itself
no matter what she did.

It would screw itself up on her perfectly round
face
until it was a
jumping-and-screaming-pink-dolphin
in the middle of a desert.

She used duct tape,
oil paint,
cardboard,
and desperately angry guilt trips
to straighten out her crooked little smile.

Nothing worked.

So,
she and her smile
went to couselling,
painted bits of pottery
(on the recommendation of their deadpan doctor),
high fived,
shook hands,
then

bought a house together
and a dog
and they tolerate each other

for now.

Start With a Title

2007-06-13T19:42:00.000-07:00

Start with a title. Start by entitling yourself to a title. Or forget the title altogether. Go title-less. Give up titles. Roll your titles up in a ball and roll them down the hill.

I guess that's the title. Now for the rest:

An Official Apology

2006-05-28T23:31:00.000-07:00

I just had the strangest experience....

I was sitting on my stoop and I heard a bizarre flapping noise coming from a neighbor's tree. It was very faint, but random and unrelenting, also slightly muffled. As it continued, I noticed a neighborhood cat, staring intently at the large pine in the front yard and I was immediately struck with the memory of a tragic event in my childhood...

When I was twelve years old, I had a flyer route that spanned thirty houses on my block. I was delivering coupons, or catalogues, or something of the sort to one of the houses on Pine Street, when I saw a robin that was stuck to a branch, madly flapping its wings to free itself. I remember staring at the desperate bird for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do. I thought, "Should I knock on the door and get help? Should I run back home and get a giant ladder and climb up to the robin and free the little birdie leg that's clamped to the tree? Should I run away?" Being the shy and awkward girl that I was, I chose the latter solution. Two days later, I was at the house again. I remember the feeling of dread, as I slowly looked up the tree, and with my eyes barely open for fear of what I might see, I spied a dead robin hanging precariously from the tree's highest branches. That image is stuck in my eyes forever.

So, this is an official apology to that poor, frantic bird who could have been saved by a shy and awkward twelve year-old girl.

Please forgive me, dear robin. I hope you're in a better place.

Life Goes On?

2006-04-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

Soaked in Sur-reality

He is wearing skin tight jeans,
no shirt
and he has something drawn on his chest
with a Magic Marker -
Perhaps he found a Magic Marker
in the empty streets of
New Orleans
and he has nothing to do
but make a sign out of bits of drenched wood that reads:
"Life Goes On?"
and draw circles on his chest.
If I were him,
I would scour the city
for bits of craft material -
macaroni, glitter and popsicle sticks
and I would make elaborate signs that read:
"Don't Forget About Me" and
"I'm Still Here" and
"Send Water" or
"A Clean Pair of Underwear" or
"A New Home"
I would build a new city
with glittering walls
and macaroni door handles
and popsicle stick roofs.
I would make a deck of cards and play solitaire.
I would beat the ground with my fists.
I would wait for the earth to swallow me whole.
I would hide under the blankets.
I would mourn the neighbors lost dog.
I would eat my last can of corn.
Or like the man in the tight jeans with circles on his chest,
I would party -
Because like he says,
"All we can do now is party."

So, I wrote this poem almost a year ago for another blog called, "themes and variations on certain moments" It was inspired by (and I almost hesitate to use this adjective) a hilarious picture I saw of a Hurricane Katrina survivor in New Orleans - a man in a pair of tight jeans, many strings of Mardi Gras beads and a long mullet, carrying a sign that read, "Life Goes On?" It was an absurd and powerful image.

A Toast to Duchamp

2006-04-02T23:59:00.000-07:00

Well. I had a big fat sigh, clicked on "Create a New Post" and here we are.

A lot's been brewing in my noggin in the last few days. Namely? My career. Okay, so sit back, grab some chips and follow closely...

Last night, I had a long talk with my friend and colleague Sam about the virtues and the travesties of being an artist - making a very active choice to pursue one's art form as a means to support oneself. I described my experience with this phenomenon using the example of Jekyl and Hyde. Our conversation went something like this...

Clarice: So, my career in the theatre makes me feel like Jekyl and Hyde, y'know? It's weird to explain it that way, but... Okay, which one is the evil one and which one's good?

Sam: Hyde is the evil one, I think.

Clarice: Right, so Jekyl is the normal one. Anyway... the point is... What is my point?... So, when things are good, when I'm in the thick of creating something, when I'm pouring my heart out on stage, or in the rehearsal hall, I'm Jekyl. Things are good. Things are great! I'm fulfilled and happy. I feel like I am exactly where I'm supposed to be and doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, y'know?

Sam: Yeah -

Clarice: But when I'm not in the thick of it, or obsessing over the creative aspect of my career, I feel like Hyde. I get negative and scared and paranoid that when I'm eighty, I'll be broke and alone. And is it worth it?

Sam: Yeah. There's that line. In "I Don't Wanna Grow Up". Tom Waits says, "I don't want to think of something else."

Clarice: Exactly. I don't want to think of something else, but I can't help it sometimes. Being a poor, starving artist has lost its romantic appeal. But there's nothing I would rather be doing or could be doing.

The conversation went elsewhere, but I was reminded of a powerful moment I had in the Centre Pompidou, confronted with a piece by Duchamp entitled, "Nine Malic Molds." I remember seeing Duchamp's Brides art pieces in a book about Dada, probably when I was in high school and obsessing over Dada art and existentialist literature (what cheeseballs we all were in high school) When I saw the piece live, face to face, I was excited. Then, realizing that the piece is more of a statue or instillation than a painting, I was pleasantly surprised. Then, walking the circumference of the piece, I saw its details, its imperfections, its intimacies. I saw random notes from the artist scratched right into the back of the piece. I saw how rough it had been put together and how cracked the piece of glass is. Suddenly, the Dada aesthetic all made sense. Who cares about the polish of a piece, or its materials, it's the exact moment of fruition that counts. You could feel that moment radiating from the piece like crazy. Right then and there, I felt like bursting into tears. I understood what it means to be an artist. And that... thing, whatever it is... is what I want and can never let go of. The freedom to express something pure, imaginative and passionate. To take ideas and paste them, with flour and water, onto reality.

I just hope I can pay my rent, not get too exhausted and enjoy "real life" in the process.

I'm begging you, Hilary Duff...

2006-01-07T19:29:00.000-08:00

So, I'm hangin' with my hilarious roommate Carmen and we decide to download Hilary Duff's new masterpiece, "Beat of my Heart" Wait a minute... why did we do that? Just a sec -

Clarice (calling from her room): Hey Carmen?

Carmen: Yeah?

Clarice: Why on earth did we decide to download "Beat of my Heart"?

Carmen: What were we talking about?

Clarice: Ummm... we were talking about bad fashion from the Eighties.

Carmen: Yeah, and you were talking about listening to cheesy Eighties music at work and-

Clarice: And I thought my head was going to implode?

Carmen: Yeah! And then it reminded me of the Hilary Duff song.

Clarice: Right.

Okay. Now that I've cleared that up... I wanted to share my shock and confusion at the new Hilary Duff song. Yes, the music itself is poor at best. You can picture ten year old girls eating too much candy and then making up choreography to its "beats." The thing that baffles me about "Beat of my Heart" is the lyrics. Seriously. For example:

I'm thinking about,

Letting it out.

I wanna give in,

I wanna go out.

Been looking around

I've finally found,

The rhythm of love,

The feeling of sound.

It's making a change,

The feeling is strange.

It's coming right back.

Right back in my range.

Not worried about

anything else,

I'm waking up

To the beat of my,

To the beat of my

heart.

I am admitedly being extreeeemely critical right now, but... [ahem]

WHAT THE BLEEDING EFF IS SHE TALKING ABOUT??

I know that the point of the song is dicovering the power that is within, and that it is a beat of some sort, perhaps similar to the beat of one's own heart. This beat encourages strength and dancing, maybe even justice and love, but seriously. The poetry DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE. If you're going to spread a message of individuality and strength to young ladies, be a little bit clearer about it. In fact, just come right out and say it. Maybe like this -

You are so rad.

Don't think you're bad.

That guy in your class,

He makes you mad.

You suddenly feel,

The need to be real.

You find it hard,

So let's make a deal.

When music comes on,

When you sing along,

Dance on your bed,

You'll feel so strong.

You're breathing the air

And you don't have a care

You're waking up

To the fact that you're,

To the fact that you're

awesome.

That's my new version of the song, "The Fact that You're Awesome" What do you think? I think it could sell MILLIONS.

However, I must conclude by saying that I respect how hard these young pop stars work. They are probably go go go twenty-four seven and they have no privacy or down time. The point is, especially if you are influencing young folks, be palpable in your message. Pleeeease. And stop saying five inane words, namely "To the beat of my heart," over and over and OVER AND OVER AGAIN until you become the world's next cult leader and I feel like I've been punched in the mind. Or at the very least, go all the way into absurdism and obscurity. Like this new hit -

I'm thinking about,

Eating a trout.

I've walked to the door

to put the trash out.

Been looking around,

I've finally found,

A snowglobe named "Sam."

I'll buy the next round.

I won't miss a chance,

I listen to trance.

Last night I waltzed,

with a fellow named "Lance"

I'm throwing grease

At the pleat of my,

At the pleat of my

pants.

"At the Pleat of my Pants"!!! Yes! Victory is MINE. Weep Hilary, weep.

"Kay, so... whatzyer names again?"

2005-12-22T15:56:00.000-08:00

I heard this coming out of a nineteen year old girl's mouth as she tried to keep from twisting her ankle on her high-heeled boots, walking down a dangerous post-last-call Whyte Avenue, behind two frosty-tipped suburban princes. I have spent the last two weeks "celebrating" the holidays. Every night I end up drunk in some bar or other, acting like I'm still in my late teens and healthy living is just the title of a bad self-help book. The socializing, of course, stems from a need to see old friends, catch up with loved ones and get my fill of the "Christmas spirit." However, the novelty of indulgence is wearing thin and so is my energy. I think I've slept an average of four or five hours a night for the last two weeks and I am definitely feeling it. It makes me wonder how I could have done this over and over again when I was in my late teens and early twenties. Back then, I knew where the drink specials were every night of the week and you could often find me on Whyte Avenue, acting like those drunk idiots that I now curse while I wait for my bus in front of Megatunes.

Last night my roommate created an analogy of being a tiny diamond in a pile of rhinestones - difficult to pick out and easily drowned by the overwhelming glitz. I am drowning in the glitter right now, but it's kind of fun. I just hope that I don't become too attached to the night life, such as it is, in this mullet-ridden city. Once the madness of Christmas ceases, I hope to go back to doing laundry and listening to the CBC instead of downing shots of tequila and causing trouble.

Oh well. You only live once, I guess. Merry Christmas Edmonton!

Paris of the Prairies

2005-12-06T20:56:00.000-08:00

I have just come back from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan from a weeklong gig with "The Shape of a Girl." We played at the Broadway Theatre, which acts as a non-profit artsy movie house and a theatre space. We had six shows spread out over four days, with shows at 9:30am and 1:30pm. The house held four hundred and fifty seats and we had between four hundred and four hundred and twenty audience members per show! The audience members were ninety percent junior high students and their ages ranged between eleven and sixteen years old. Other audience members were teachers, police officers (wanting to learn more about teen bullying), local artists and friends of the presenter.

Okay, so... here's what I learned during my run in Saskatoon:

(First of all, I must sidebar by saying that I learned more in those six shows than I did in some of my classes in theatre school. OR, perhaps it's more correct to say that I ACTUALLY USED MY TRAINGING. There were times in Electra when I was able to achieve these revelations, but I can honestly say that on some level, "I get it now.")

1. Among those four hundred plus students, there were always one or five that acted out of line. This is not surprising to me, not in a snarky way, in a genuine way. I've discovered that kids between the ages of eleven and sixteen tend not to pander to social niceties. If they're bored, they'll let you know. If they don't get it, you will find out. The problem is that some are not well versed in the necessity of respect. Some don't realize (or they realize and just don't care) that you are a human being up on stage, who cannot concentrate when someone is giggling, or yawning or laughing right in the front row. I would lie to say that I enjoyed this sort of adolescent-driven torture; however, it forced me to take control and be as clear as possible. In our very first acting class with Jan Henderson, she used the word, "Warrior." She said, "The creative process requires the Child and the Fool, but in its presentation, it requires the Warrior" (There was a reason we called her, "Little Yoda") I found out what it means to be a Warrior on stage - to be heard, to demand respect, and in turn to embrace the audience fully.

2. As an extension of the Warrior lesson, I learned that an actor's biggest enemy is self-doubt. At first I thought it was fear, but fear is a powerful tool (only if the Warrior call be used) Self-doubt, or a personal running commentary during the performance is an absolute killer. There were definitely a couple shows where I assumed that the entire audience was against me. This was a reaction to the one or five students that acted out of line. In reality, the majority was totally with me from start to finish. If I had just trusted the show and myself and put myself in every moment, I would've had a more enjoyable experience.

3. As an extension of trusting oneself and putting oneself into each moment, I learned that sometimes, you have to just keep on truckin'. Instant forgiveness, instant forgiveness, INSTANT FORGIVENESS! Actors would talk about this a lot, but I wasn't quite sure what they meant until now.

4. On a bigger scale, I learned how important it is to have a voice. Again, I've come up with this lesson. It seems that in our world, it is the few who make it difficult for the many to speak out. When the students were disrespecting me, they were inadvertently silencing me. Perhaps this wasn't their intention, but their actions were incredibly powerful. Watching the Saddam Hussein trials on television has made me see that speaking out is the most dangerous thing a person could do, especially when you have people screaming, "Liar!" while you tell the truth. I just pray that justice will be done for all those families who were tortured under Hussein's government.

5. On a personal level, I re-discovered my JOY and LOVE for acting.

Thank Saskatoon; you are definitely "the Paris of the Prairies."

My 25th Post!

2005-11-22T15:53:00.000-08:00

I am in my second day of the "The Shape of a Girl" school tour. I have played to three very different junior high audiences, all equally as scrutinizing (in their own way) The first was a school in rural Alberta. The students were extremely vocal, especially when the character swore and talked back to the Mom, or any other authority figure. The second audience was at Victoria School for the Arts. The teachers handled the students very well. They were very attentive and polite and had a lot of intellectual things to say. However, one of the teachers kept saying, "We can all learn a lot from the skit we just saw..." or "I think it's important to remember the skit and take important lessons from it..." Every time she said "skit," I thought my head was going to implode. The third school was in a rich suburban neighborhood in the west end of the city. All of the girls (three hundred of them!) were invited to the performances. As it says in the script, the boys were banished. The last audience was the most interesting of them all. A girl immediately piped up during the talkback with, "I didn't get it." We asked her, "What didn't you get?" She responed with, "The whole thing. I didn't understand the point of it." I hate to judge, but she held a lot of power in that room. She seemed to feel threatened, and in turn was challenging me with an "I didn't get it." The girls surrounding her giggled and played nervously with their hair. After everyone left, a friendly teenage girl with braces walked into the gym:

"Um, I have a question."
"Sure, ask away."
"Does Sofie die at the end?"
"No, Sofie gets badly beaten up, but she doesn't die."
"Okay. Nice to meet you."

I am completely fascinated by the code of adolescent-speak. It blows me away. I just hope that I can get through to a few girls that they are allowed, even in grade eight, to be totally and completely brave. Bravery and adolescence do not seem to go hand in hand.

Friends are lovely, lovely, lovely

2005-10-25T20:45:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to friends and to my lifelong discovery of their layers of importance.

I struggle every day with my innately reclusive nature. It has taken me several years to become comfortably independent. I take walks for hours by myself. I walk through quiet neighborhoods in my city. I look at cute houses. I close my eyes and let sunlight trickle on my face. There's nothing I like more that a lone walk. But, there is something I love more - laughter.

In theatre school, we were introduced to an exercise called, "Pile of Puppies" We all laid on the floor with our heads on people's stomachs, or arms or legs. Our teacher (the brilliant and amazing Jan Henderson) guided us into relaxed, natural breathing. Then, she simply said, "You can laugh if you want to." Inevitably, someone let out a silent giggle, which affected the person whose head was placed on their stomach. Then, they would involuntarily giggle, which would affect the person attached to them and so on. Pretty soon, everyone was laughing uncontrollably. Laughing and cackling and wheezing with joy. Then, this laughter turned into crying and sobbing and back to laughing. The crying and sobbing was not necessarily from a joyous place. All of it was a glorious release - intense, genuine and beautiful.

When I am able to experience such a release with someone who understands me without question, I feel safe, full and gorgeous. I feel like I can do anything. I feel like my heart can be fully open without a chance of it being broken.

So thank-you to all of my friends and family: Mom, Dad, Andrew, Grandma, Carmen, Julie, Steve, Shannon, Jeff, Sean, Amy, Janice, Melissa, Tracy, Kelly, Candice, Rene, Mark, Stephen, Jonathan, James, Justin, Jon, Michelle, Sabrina, Mayna and many many more...

I hope that I can take many sun-soaked walks with you.

I'm becoming restless over my restlessness...

2005-09-09T00:14:00.000-07:00

My God.

It's 1:15am and I cannot sleep. My alarm is set for 7:30am so I can get up and go for a run!

AAAAAAAAAACK!

Ah, who cares. It is inane frivolity to complain about such silliness as not being able to sleep......

...........

1:18am........

Okay. This is weird. I can usually fall asleep NO PROBLEM. In fact, I am one of those people who can fall asleep ANYWHERE, at ANYTIME and sleep through ANYTHING. The reason? When I was a kid, my mother would play Scott Joplin on the piano and vacuum the hallway to make us sound sleepers. Now, I can sleep through thunder storms, screeching sirens, the end of the world. You name it, I can sleep through it. So what's different about tonight?

Yesterday, a bunch of friends had their first day of theatre school. I just graduated from theatre school. Maybe I am feeling a bit restless, like I should be doing something intense and highly focused that requires a great deal of effort. Maybe that's why I spent nine hours scrubbing and reorganizing my whole house...

Yikes.

I guess this means I need to get deeply involved in a theatre project AS SOON AS POSSIBLE... or two months from now when I start working on "Shape of a Girl" Until then, I guess I am selling shoes and "going for runs" in the morning and cleaning my house. And relaxing... Go figure.

Aaaah... show panic...

2005-08-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

So, the crazy Ponies are fulfilling a lifelong dream to produce a theme -based Fringe show called, "Rocking Out." Shannon and I had this idea when we were drunk at karaoke last summer. Does it rock? Yes. I think the show is going to rock the socks off of the unsuspecting Fringe patrons. I hope it does, anyway. If not, it will be an entertaining ride... and there's a pretty KICK ASS band on stage with us (The James T. Kirks) - so it will be awesome.

I love how show panic always sets in a week and a half before opening. In fact every show (that I care about immensely) has this thick black forest of show panic, which suddenly descends upon the weary travelers... or something. The thicker the "Show Panic Forest," and the harder the struggle to the other side, the higher the rewards. Here is the biggest danger of the "Show Panic Forest" - its trees are so thick and dark that the travelers cannot get to the other side. However, I have never seen that happen. The risk of dishonoring oneself is too great. The show must go on.

So now, our Fringe show rocks. And I am very pumped, but I am still hacking my way through some of the thick foliage of "Show Panic Forest." We are strong, like the Voyageurs in Quebec, and will wade through fast streams with our canoes on our heads - and we will sing loudly to keep our spirits up.

Clarice "the motivational speaker" Eckford?

2005-08-11T21:50:00.000-07:00

It's been almost two months since I posted anything.

I must take this time to create a zinger of a mantra for myself - almost like the chorus of a pop song that you can't help but like. If I can create something snappy, it will pop into my head like an old jazz standard. It will haunt my subconscious and pop up right when I need it.

What is its purpose? To remind me to...

1. Create a reasonable schedule
2. Maintain focus
3. Dedicate 100% effort to every task I have agreed to

I am starting to realize points one and three are completely dependent upon each other. If I create a reasonable schedule for myself, then I can dedicate 100% of my effort to every task and promise. The focus is there to help me along the way - maintaining organization, and a proper list of priorities.

(Side bar)
How did this happen? When did I become an adult? When was it more important for me to reorganize my priorities than going out and flirting with the night?
(End of side bar)

Okay... mantra. How about -

One hundred percent means one hundred percent. Anything less makes everyone bent.

Yikes. Or how about -

When you wake up late and rush to work; you look like a fool, or a big fat jerk.

Um... how about one more -

When you're true to yourself and true to your word, Your life won't seem so hard and absurd.

Yep. There we have it folks. Three ridiculous mantras to get me through my day!

Mom shook out the bedsheets...

2005-06-14T00:36:00.000-07:00

Why do I stay up so late.

This has been my mantra throughout all of nextfest-festivities. What a fabulous party... feeling truly close to a community of people while drinking free beer and laughing my guts sore is the best way to spend an evening. Especially when you look at your watch to be shocked by the glowing 5:15am that pierces your fun. Then sitting on the sidewalk in the pouring rain - both ass cheeks and thighs slapped down on wet cement... Janice and I riding a tiny little banana bike - both of us screaming and splashing in puddles. I'm pretty sure the banana bike incident happened in a dream before it occurred last night.

Really, when it comes right down to it, I am avoiding the spider in my room.

Moments in Time

2005-05-19T00:30:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are again with this bizarre thing called, "blogging"

I always find it strange how my blogs have to be composed from the moments I have while typing them up. Where does my brain go in that time? How would this differ if it was two hours ago? Let's see, two hours ago...

11:33pm -
I had just gotten home from a 25 minute walk from work. I stayed at work way too long trying on fun clothing that had just come in that day... The walk tired me out. I had just finished giving myself a very serious talking to about boys... "Be logical. Be realistic. Don't get caught up in bullshit. You know better than that. It's easier now to be realistic about these things." So, yeah. I was feeding myself bullshit about what I "should" do about boys.... Then I saw a giant beetle. Then I thought, "I should feed the birds." Then I spent two minutes trying to find my house keys in my bag and realized they were in my pocket.

This is fun, so how about seven hours ago?

Okay, so seven hours would be...

6:41 -
Uuuuuuuh.... That's not all that exciting because I was working.....

So..... TEN hours ago....

3:41 -
I was in the middle of rehearsal for Random Acts of Violence in America for Nextfest. I was probably thinking, "Wow. It's so much easier to be in a play, that's primary purpose is to be a highschool mentorship program. The focus is on the experience for the students, so I can show up, have some fun acting and leave. This is good. And I'm starting to get this character too."

Okay. Now it's 1:46am and I'm yawning. Ten hours from now, I'll be getting ready to go back to rehearsal. I wonder how I'll feel then...

...the beautiful, sad and magnificent prairies

2005-05-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

The prairie forest hold
so much mystery-
It is a tiny hiding place
for the dancing bugs
and farmers
They light the tree tops
with flaming torches
and sing their prayers
deep inside the bark.

The Lazy Air of Spring

2005-04-24T00:42:00.000-07:00

Ack. Man am I tired. I just finished packing for this trip tomorrow and now I am delaying the necessary evil of going to bed. I'm trying to find any excuse to stay up just a little longer. After this, I am going outside to sit on my front steps and smoke a cigarette... I always find this a strange activity. Sitting in silence, inhaling deeply, gazing aimlessly at my bird feeder, or the house across the street, thinking very random thoughts... once in a while having a tiny epiphany. My favourite is the ambient noise. Ambient noise is very comforting, and very seasonal. The air sounds different in the spring than in the winter; the sound of walking is different in the spring. People's feet are sharper and faster in the winter, and languid and thoughtful in the spring and summer.

Here's a poem:

My lips pout to waste some time
My gaze lays gracefully along the ground
I rest my lazy chin upon my welcoming hands
and listen to the sounds of spring's drunken stupor
I pinch the cheeks of my neighbor's fence
It desperately needs a face lift
yet it still stands
like a stubborn old pony
leaning against the air like it could hold the weight of a lion

Good-night.

A sigh is still a sigh... as time goes by

2005-04-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well... here we are. It is April of 2005 and my last entry was September 2004. My goodness. I feel like I've run into a friend I have not seen "in forever" and they ask, "So, what's new?" and in 50 words or less, you have to explain all the intricacies of your complicated and boring life. Then, you just end up saying, "Well, you know, lots of stuff..." So, you know, lots of stuff is new. Lots and lots and lots.

1. Third year BFA. Everything has gelled itself into a very positive experience in the BFA and now, I can confidently go out there and work... I hope. The point is, the confidence that I lost last year is back, and it makes all the difference. Now in an audition, I let my imagination run wild and embrace each moment, instead of worrying about where to place my resonance. Stupid resonance. I have learned, especially in Electra, to BE IN EVERY MOMENT. The resonance will be there, you don't have to think about it.

2. Tomorrow at five o'clock, I'm heading out on an audition tour. My classmates and I are whizzing across Canada in two rented white vans, a bunch of sleeping bags and two contrasting pieces. Whether or not we get work doesn't matter so much as closing this chapter of my life. This is a perfect way to say good-bye to people that are now eternally connected to me because of this three-year carnival ride. I said good-bye to Candice last night at our fancy-pansy good-bye soiree. "Good-bye" never ever hits me until later. It was the same with Julie. Sometimes I worry that my "sentimental timer" is off. As I was giving Candice a hug, my thoughts were, "I'll see her again. No big deal." Then later on, Carmen and I were talking about boys (as usual) and she said something like, "I deserve a man who loves my mind, not just my body." Suddenly, this thing started bubbling in my guts - with tears in my eyes and through grinding teeth I said, "Carmen, you have no idea how amazing you are. You are one of the most beautiful, brilliant, organized, talented, with-it chicks that I know and you deserve nothing less than the absolute best." Wow. Where does this stuff come from and why can't I control when it happens and when it doesn't?

3. I live with my best friend Carmen. She is brilliant and organized and talented. She gets A's in school and neither of us care about the dishes, so it's perfect.

4. Electra. My goodness. I will dedicate an entire blog to this. Electra changed my life.

5. Hope Mission. I will also dedicate a blog to this. This experience has also changed things.

Mmmm-hmmm. I am glad to be back.

2004-06-24T21:29:00.000-07:00

Here's my Fringe poster idea!

little puppy...

2004-06-24T21:26:00.001-07:00

Here's a little story I created for my friend Michelle's email fanclub newsletter...

I was waiting at a bus stop - knee twiching, looking at my watch, and the most amazing thing whizzed by. A dog in a blue family car, with its head out the back seat passanger side window, his face plastered in the wind, and with the most perfect eyes-half-closed look on his face, sped past my scattered body. His whiskers flapped past my half smirk and travelled onwards forever and ever, letting blueness and beauty be his guide; not letting anything get in the way of his path. Moral of the story? Never forget your clumsy little heart, which craves flapping whiskers and whizzing sunsets, even at an awkward bus stop.

It's All About the Relationship

2004-06-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

I took a workshop by Dean Gilmour today - a graduate from the Jauque LeCoq School of Acting in Paris. Here are some of the things I learned...

1. Do not be formal in theatre games. Formality is a waste of time. We played a game where one person begins a sound and action, then choses a person in the circle and that person mirrors the sound and action, matching it in energy. Eventually the original person leaves and then the new person morphs the sound and action into something of their own and continues the game. So why is formality a waste of time in connection to this game? It maintains the destructive attitude of "this must be right," or "I must not fail." In reality, every exploration is useful, whether it is just puking out nonsense, or creating a brilliant relationship. It all has a purpose, whether it is to learn what works or what could work better. By matching intensity, the stakes can only be increased and the game can only go to intuitive, magical places.

2. Do not think about appropriate, or logical. Stay and play. It is about "le jeu." When the game is working there can and should be some fun. Also, keep your objective simple and drive for it at all costs. However, play for and with, not against.

3. There is no formula for creation theatre. If you think you know something, you do not. Although, sometimes going through the process of discovering you do not know is an important step.

4. We also did mask work which was hard, and I don't get it, except, don't make stuff happen, hold the feeling, truly understand what the feeling is and let the audience fill in the blanks, or apply their own mythology to the situation.

5. An important part of theatre is relationship and consequence. Someone is given a problem and what happens as a result.

6. In creation theatre, you should allow yourself the ability to argue an idea with all your might, but then completely change your mind the next day - without punishment.

I also saw a show tonight called BRILLIANT! The Blinding Enlightenment of Nikola Tesla. It was brilliant. The rhythm work with the emsemble was genius. Some story lines could have been explored more, but the magic came in moments like "numbers in Tesla's head" and "the bicycles" and white balls and people as toy boats and pigeons... the imagination ran wild.

Random Cocktail Weenies

2004-06-16T23:38:00.000-07:00

Drunk on a Sad Summer

Time is gone
like a moon falling through the lazy light.
He is in bed with my delirious shadow
and there is no flood like an eternity.
Honey, watch me drive-
I ache for a pink sky.

Magnetic poetry is funny. It took me a really long time to find the word "on."

Anyway, I worked a catering gig at the Muttart Conservatory, butlering crab cakes and beef samosas. The gig was for sixty very conservative psychiatrists. I was working the bar for about an hour and I poured, maybe, five glasses of wine. The rest of the time, I thought about my life. I thought about Bill and Outer Spaces and then I'd snap out of it and think, "Oooh, look psychiatrists." Then I would watch people's body language, and the way they laugh at each other's jokes, how they "listen very seriously" to each other. I watched a husband and wife and imagined how it must have been love at first sight. I tried to figure out a painting called "Dew on Rose Bud" that was just a mash of purple on a white canvas. I wished that my imagination was such that I could go off into magical worlds of lions under the ocean, slowly sinking deeper out of their element...

Last night I crashed a party at the Catalyst theatre for the Magnetic North Theatre festival. Me and a couple other friends ended up talking to a woman from Vancouver who is a producer for Rumble Theatre. She talked about how there are only five female artistic directors out of twenty-five in Canada. As terrible as it sounds, we were having a lot more fun talking about sex toys and cocktail weenies.

Like Steve, maybe I should drive to Chicago on a motorbike and create a graphic novel about the journey. Except, all of my graphics will be cubes with happy or sad faces and big fluffy clouds.

Ryan phoned me about his concern with Ken's approach to the writers in Outer Spaces. I am concerned too and very confused about where I stand, what the production needs and where my power lies. I think we should cut.. well, I don't know. There is one piece in particular that is rough. Then a couple of writers have two long scenes, not just one. I just do not want to lose any writer collegues over this show. Also, I'm realising these Pony shows are INSANE. Insane. Why couldn't I have chosen something simple to be into? It's a risky science experiment or a fantastic balancing act. You have to balance writers with show. Niether is more important to the production, and they cannot be at odds with each other. They must serve each other. Dammit. This summer is crazy. Everything is so difficult. Fuck. I consider myself a happy person, but I'm pretty damn frustrated right now. It's okay. Just keep your head up, be honest and don't screw around. Work hard. And don't forget your clumsy little beautiful heart.

My brain is random right now. I was going to go to bed early, and here it is 1:30am.

Bye.

In a hankerchief, tied to a stick

2004-06-10T00:32:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have distorted guitar riffs in my eyeballs.

Do you ever feel sometimes like you want to rip your heart, right out of your chest, sit down with it at your kitchen table and have a good chat? Like, "If I'm SUPPOSED to follow you, where the HELL are you going? Seriously. Where?" Then I find myself with all my possessions in a hankerchief, tied to a stick... Just as my hand reaches for the door knob to sprint the heck out of this popscicle stand with too many dishes in the sink, I find myself covered in lilac petals. Or I find myself covering the keyboard with cracker crumbs, sitting hunched over in a computer chair.

Congratulations Pony Productions

2004-06-08T00:11:00.000-07:00

Today Pony Productions was nominated for the 2004 Sterling Award for Outstanding New Fringe Production. I am beside myself and granted, I am relieved because it is one thing this summer that has worked out beyond my expectations. On my way to meet a friend at our local watering hole, who would not have known about the nomination unless I told her, I wanted desperately to hold my motherf-----g tounge and not perpetuate that need for a "Congratulations!" or a big hug, a pat on the back, or a look of approval. I didn't want to make it about me or my life, especially because it's her BIRTHDAY. But I couldn't help myself. Sometimes I hate how self absorbed this profession is and how it is so geared towards winning - whether its a job, or a pat on the back, a good review, or a stupid award. Who cares. Why can't it be about the collaboration itself? Anyway, this is a hackneyed problem; but, fuck it. It is a cliche world. Congrats Pony!

2004-06-07T20:59:00.000-07:00

weeee!

my clumsy little heart

2004-06-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't done a post in almost a week. Story of my life. Get really into something and then suddenly lose interest. Grrr. I need to figure out a few things. First of all, who is this blogger for? Why did I start it? What is its purpose? Well, obviously it is for me and my need to work out all the fragmented and abtstact pieces of logic in my head. It's also a location for the board meeting of my brain where inspired and not so inspired parts of myself come to meet and throw shit at each other. It's also a place to get creative. So why am I not only forgetting to use it, but also using recycled poetry from two years ago? I dare myself to write a brand new poem. Now.

Go. Type, dammit. TYPE!

Nothing. mmmm... grrrr... IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE BRILLIANT! GO!

Find those horses -
the horses that tear past my starting gate and slosh through my guts and drink the piss in my pants.
Stop telling people the same story over and over again -
like the one about the homeless guy they call "The Garbage Man," who walks around town with bits of paper up his shirt, pushing a shopping cart full of ripped up childrens' books and candy wrappers.
Stop looking at your watch -
no matter what you do, you will be late, because you were born in a time warp that turns the air into molases and your feet into chickens when you are rushing from place to place.
Value you clumsy little heart -
that drops trays of glasses at the most inopportune times and slips on water outside of serious moments and perfect sunsets.
Value your clumsy little heart.
Value your little heart.
Value your heart.
Value your heart.

There. Done. HAPPY?

My heart IS happy right now. It brushes itself off and sits with its head in its hands, waving its legs around like a little kid in a chair that's a bit too big.

my birthday

2004-05-31T02:14:00.000-07:00

It's going to take me an hour to wirte this post and I've decided to leave mistakes, *(within reason) because they are "oragnic" and ":natural" for my state..... It was my 26th birthday tonight. I have a lot of people that love me and I need to love them more. I need each person to feel improtant and happy and wanted and loved. Arg. Accept what is. That is also imperative. Also, love everything pure that inspires you. Pure art is close to pure love, hate, awe... powerful stuff. It deserves respect. So do people.

Maybe not an hour. I need to sleep.

Bye.

Thanks, Uncle Fritz

2004-05-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

I went to a funeral today. It was for my great uncle Fritz who died at the ripe old age of 86. The funeral was in a beautiful old country church. A path surrounded by trees lead to a tiny graveyard in the back. The view was nothing but farmers' fields and rolling clouds with flat grey bottoms. There was a bit of a wind. The sun was hot. His casket was covered in dyed blue roses and yellow daisies. I guess his favourite colour was blue and he's Swedish, so yellow and blue flowers were wonderfully appropriate.

The service was beautiful. His life was honoured in the best way possible. He was a quiet, gentle, kind man. He served in the Second World War in Italy. He spent four years away from his newlywed, fighting in the Canadian army along side his brother Ed. Ed won a Victoria Cross for his efforts. He also saw a shell rip through a truck with Fritz and other Canadian soldiers inside. He was convinced that his brother was dead. And then nothing happened. The shell was empty. They played "The Last Post" on a solo trumpet at the end of the funeral. I cried. Not as much as I could have. I could feel salt tears filling up my throat as I swallowed hard.

I was inspired by Fritz's life. He touched many people with his generosity and sincerity. He hardly spoke a mean word in his life. After there was a shoddy road built by his farm, he said the only bitter words his children heard: "Anyone who builds a road like this should be horse-whipped."

I refuse to live solely for my own benefit and success anymore. I need to reach out to others, whether they're taking that two dollars I gave them and wasting on booze, or whether they're a handful and a "waste of skin." I cannot be afraid to be compassionate, or in today's society - naive. If that's what it takes, then I can be as naive as the next foolish man.

A Little Moment

2004-05-23T23:59:00.000-07:00

clarice's feet

Childhood

Opening our heads to the heavens,
I look to fevered children
hopping into my arms
like perfectly round potatoes.
Sometimes all I could hear
was a raging ragtime piano
on our never-ending journey.
Pursing our lips at every corner store and bus stop,
dogs and their owners
grinned at us
like their life depended on it -
And all I could do
was fold my arms
and cry until my buttons popped.

Rocking Out!

2004-05-23T02:22:00.000-07:00

I was at karaoke tonight. I sang "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap," for my Mom. [Side bar. When I was growing up, my Mom's favourite band was AC DC. I grew up in a very normal, Christian, suburban home and I remember my Mom saying to me once, WHILE LISTENING TO AC DC, "How could anyone NOT think this is good music?" I knew right then and there that my Mom rocked. End of side bar.] I've decided that Pony Productions next show will be entitled "Rocking Out!" It will be several scenes, written by local playwrights about their version of "rocking out." It will rock. The show will keep everyone rocking. That's where I want to take my theatre company. To a place where everyone's deep down need for "rocking out" is fulfilled.

A PO-EM:

I Lived with a Rock and Roll Star

Here we go again -
you sing your song
and your stapled to the
buffet of macaroni and beer
swaying and whistling among
dripping smoke
to the buzz of dancing feet.

The old man at
the piano laughs
his big fat heart out -
and we eat and gorge ourselves
until nothing remains
except your dog’s
watchful eye
that sings us a soothing
lullaby -

I press my finger on the floor
to rewind to the song
that made the room
dance and spin,
drifting though candle light
and pools of
smiles and laughs.

And our porch light
is the only one
that shines
on the whole block -
a solitary star
that ponders the night
and all its beauty.

Rule Number One in Party Planning: Always Ask Permission!

2004-05-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

Why do I get in the most trouble when I'm in limbo - casually waiting for something to glue itself to something else (or to unglue itself from something else)? Waiting for decisions to be made, people to shake the webs off their fingers and send an email, debts to magically disappear, people to call, shows to go up.... When there's no mail in the mailbox, no emails in the inbox and no messages on the answering machine, I get batty. I worry that... I don't even know what I worry about. I spend my time getting way too wired on coffee and going for "casual" walks to buy a newspaper that I don't read. I feel like I should do what I did when I was a kid: build random crap out of an egg carton, or plan a party that no one attends. [Side bar. When I was little, we had a series of books by Childcraft called "The How and Why Library." One of the books, "Make and Do" was my best friend before I went to school. It had crafts like potato stamps, and pen-and-pencil holders made out of corrugated paper. I know, lame. But I kept out of trouble on the rough suburban streets of Sherwood Park. There was also a section on how to plan a party. These were the easy to follow instructions at the start of the chapter:

1. Ask your parents for permission to have a party.

2. Decide what kind of party you want and whether it will be held indoors or outdoors.

3. Decide when to have the party.

4. Decide how long the party will last.

5. Decide whom you will invite to the party.

6. Send written invitations to your friends after your mother has found out if they can come. Tell them what kind of party you are having, at what time, where and whether or not the guests should wear costumes. You can use coloured paper to make the invitations. Ask your mother to help you put names on the invitations.

7. Make decorations that fit the kind of party you are giving - flags for Fouth-of-July party (or Canada Day party!), a Santa Claus for a Christmas party, balloons for a circus party, or pumpkins cut from paper for a Halloween party.

8. Ask your mother to prepare the refreshments. Ice cream, cake, cookies, and lemonade are good for any party.

9. Make a list of games you would like to play. Choose some quiet games as well as running games.

10. Make party hats and favours for the guests. Or have the materials at the party and let the guests make their own.

When I was four or five years old, I was so keyed up to have a glamorous shindig that I would make party hats for no reason and invite my entire kindergarten class to a theme party, without my mother knowing. This did not go over well. I had broken rule number one of the party planning bible - ask permission. End of side bar.]

Maybe I'll go and plan a party. A party for one with elaborate decorations, jello molds, a viciously spiked punch bowl, a wicked dj and, most importantly, pinwheel sandwiches. Here's a recipe:

1. Cut the crusts from the top of a fresh loaf.
2. Slice the loaf length-wise into 0.8 cm slices.
3. Remove the crusts.
4. Spread the filling on slices. This can be cream cheese, diced ham and pickles, finely chopped dates, peanut butter mixed with orange juice, and grated cheese with chopped nuts or olives.
5. Starting at the end, roll up like a jelly roll.
6. Wrap in wax paper and chill.
7. Cut into 0.8 cm slices.
NOTE: Stuffed olives, maraschino cherries, dill pickles, or a peeled banana may be placed across before rolling is started.

I hope everyone is experiencing their own little party right now. Just as long as they asked permission first.

A PO-EM:

Things that Happen Late at Night

Things have been quiet for a long time -
Puddles boil under my feet.
I hang over a bathroom mat and smile in Technicolor.
I grip my heart with chopsticks and hanging smoke.
Crying at sad movies has become a chore.
I hide underneath tables and crawl in drawers.

You give me one last smile to interrupt my story -
You call me the gypsy
because sometimes I feel like a falling star made out of pink Styrofoam
shining brighter than bright for all the children’s smiling faces.
You make a wish as I flash and then disappear,
making one final mark across the perfectly black night.

Water Chestnuts and Mustard

2004-05-21T00:45:00.000-07:00

It's ten days before my twenty-sixth birthday, I'm in theatre school and I've never been so poor in my life. About two months ago, I looked in my fridge and all I had was water chestnuts and mustard. I laughed so hard I fell over. I keep telling myself that it builds character - I'll come out the other end a better person with loads of wisdom and financial know how. However, I am dangerously close to becoming a dental hygienist. [Side bar. About three months ago, my mother, who is getting her PhD. in environmental microbiology, explained to a lab tech that I was in the BFA Acting program at the university. The lab tech snickered and said, "She'll come to her senses and become a dental hygienist." End of side bar.] I must not lose the faith! No dental hygienics for me!

I've realised I am the happiest when discussing the unique staging of random theatrical ideas. For example, what do I do with an image of three girls in a row - in their bra, panties and ankle socks brushing their teeth? How could someone float on stage? [Side bar. I am producing a show at the Edmonton Fringe Festival this year called "Outer Spaces." It's a series of vingettes, set in outer space, written by a dozen local playwrights. I'm very excited and our director (who is a genius) wants people to float on stage. Hmmm... End of side bar.]

So I guess I'm stuck with the beautiful curse of theatre practitioner. People will think I'm nutty and "zany" and I'll eat lots of water chestnuts and mustard; but, I will be stupidly happy.

A PO-EM:

The Sparkling Children

I have extreme hope
and I want the world to know
that my fridge light works-

The truck across the street
glows bright in its white paint job
and its riddled with small children in the back
where the boxes should go.
They are all waving branches
and there are six of them -
each having an expression of complete awe
at the perfect puddles
surrounding their feet.