Update time. OPERATION HOLIDAY FAMILY FREAKDOWN IN TEXAS went swimmingly, as in it went the (b) route. Worth it.
Even more worth it because -- joyful surprise! -- Jonathan and I got two ticket vouchers in exchange for volunteering to get bumped to a later flight to Austin. We arrived within a couple hours of our original arrival time, and we got to fly first class (which these days isn't as dazzling as one might imagine but still, not bad). So we can now plan a special trip wherever we want, whenever we want, however we want. Amazing how that perked up our spirits and took off some of the we spent $1200, and for what?! pressure.
The other tangible outcome of all the stress was that we had a frank discussion with my family about holiday traditions and the need for change. As in: I told them we will be celebrating Christmas in Oregon next year, and they are welcome to visit me if they want to. It was a good, hard conversation, and I think they more or less understood. As our friend Debbie so wisely pointed out, you can’t create new traditions for yourself until you stop trying to hold onto the old ones. We're adults now, and it's time for us to buy our own tree and make our own goll-dang traditions.
Other highlights:
+ Hearing Jonathan's grandparents tell stories -- I am always reminded, when I'm around them, of where Jonathan gets his incredible gift for spinning tales and holding court with grace and charm. This is a trait that I admire in Texans in general (and I am not just saying this to suck up to Jonathan's family).
+ But as long as I'm sucking up, Jonathan's family bought me a wonderful gift: cowboy boots! I'm like a little kid, I want to wear them all the time.
+ Of course I ate the most incredible, tender, smoky BBQ I have ever had the pleasure of consuming. Complete with pickled okra and hush puppies. Mmmmmmmm.
+ My parents gave us a food dehydrator which maybe doesn't sound that exciting but trust me, it is. We can dry our own mushrooms and tomatoes. Which is going to help us with our grand goal of living entirely off our garden produce year-round.
+ Though we only saw my family for one day in Austin, it was a delightful jam packed day, featuring chilaquiles for breakfast, pho for dinner, dominoes, happy hour, a hot tub, an engagement announcement and new year resolutions. Plus my mom half asleep and giggling on the couch.
Now we're back in Portland preparing for our grand escape to NYC which alternately thrills and terrifies me. But then again pretty much everything in life alternately thrills and terrifies me.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Holiday Stress, and other cliches
So. I am experiencing holiday anxiety. Also known as a BEING A LIVING BREATHING ORGANISM. You can tell I'm anxious because I'm expressing most of my emotions in ALL CAPS and use the word FREAKING a lot. Though if that's my criteria than I guess I'm anxious all the time.
Point being, I have not bought a plane ticket yet and my family is cheerfully expecting me to be in Dallas in five days.
Dallas is where my sister, my aunt and her family live. My parents are driving down from Michigan to convene upon it.
And Jonathan’s family, down in Corpus Christi, are expecting us on Christmas Eve.
Every time we visit Texas I forget how FREAKING HUGE it is, so once again I blithely thought we could fly into Dallas, swing down to Corpus, hit Austin on the way, drive back up to Dallas – everyone would be happy. Awesome, road trip! But I forgot that Corpus Christi is a six hour drive from Dallas.
So the reality is: we will fly into Dallas, spend two days there, on Christmas Eve drive six hours down to Corpus, spend two days there, then drive back up to Dallas, stopping in Austin to see some old friends, then fly out early in the morning so we can be back in Portland for a rehearsal. (oh yeah, we’re flying to New York on January 4th). Are we even going to have time to stop at a BBQ joint? Side note, I love writing BBQ. I wish more long words had 3-letter abbreviations. Like, instead of full-blown panic attack I could just say I’m in the middle of a FBPA. Wait, that’s just an acronym. How about HYPVN8 intead of hyperventilate? It’s not the same. BBQ is in a class of its own.
Anyway, the real reality is, (see opening sentence – I’m on a continuous loop) I haven’t bought the tickets yet, and they’re insanely expensive, and I am engaging in what is the most extreme case of denial yet in a long and storied career of practicing denial.
I know, I’m sounding whiny. And this is the most boring post ever. But right now tickets to Dallas are around $700 and it’s way cheaper to fly into Austin. But if we fly into Austin… oh dear lord. That adds a three hour trip that looks something like this:
Austin --> 3 HOURS --> Dallas --> 6 HOURS --> Corpus Christi --> 6 HOURS@#%&$%!!! --> Dallas --> 3 HOURS --> Austin (in time for a 6am flight).
THAT IS MADNESS. But if I tell my parents this is too expensive and complicated for me to handle this year, they’ll alternately shout and sob hysterically about how the family has fallen apart and life will never be the same and what’s $1400 compared to SAVING THE FAMILY?
When will the day come where people come to me for the holidays? I know, I know. When I have a baby. Which sounds less complicated right now than trying to figure out all these travel details.
UPDATE: ok, I just talked to my parents and we came up with an alternate plan where they meet me in Austin on the 26th. And they did not shout or sob hysterically. So I was just being a big old stressball for no reason.
UPDATE #2: Did I mention that I have not bought (or lovingly handmade) any presents yet?
UPDATE #3: I bought the tickets. The thing is, I don't know if in 7 days I will be (a) rolling on the floor laughing with my sister saying THANK GOD I BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS or (b) on the road exhausted and too broke to buy a taco saying WHY IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS DID YOU LET ME BUY THOSE TICKETS. To my poor long suffering partner who is asleep on the couch right now. He was so happy an hour ago when he thought I'd decided, screw it, not worth it, this time we're staying home for the holidays.
Anyway, I'll let you know in a week whether it goes direction a or b. Unless it swerves madly in an abab bcbc cdcd ee pattern in which case I will express my feelings in the form of a sonnet.
Point being, I have not bought a plane ticket yet and my family is cheerfully expecting me to be in Dallas in five days.
Dallas is where my sister, my aunt and her family live. My parents are driving down from Michigan to convene upon it.
And Jonathan’s family, down in Corpus Christi, are expecting us on Christmas Eve.
Every time we visit Texas I forget how FREAKING HUGE it is, so once again I blithely thought we could fly into Dallas, swing down to Corpus, hit Austin on the way, drive back up to Dallas – everyone would be happy. Awesome, road trip! But I forgot that Corpus Christi is a six hour drive from Dallas.
So the reality is: we will fly into Dallas, spend two days there, on Christmas Eve drive six hours down to Corpus, spend two days there, then drive back up to Dallas, stopping in Austin to see some old friends, then fly out early in the morning so we can be back in Portland for a rehearsal. (oh yeah, we’re flying to New York on January 4th). Are we even going to have time to stop at a BBQ joint? Side note, I love writing BBQ. I wish more long words had 3-letter abbreviations. Like, instead of full-blown panic attack I could just say I’m in the middle of a FBPA. Wait, that’s just an acronym. How about HYPVN8 intead of hyperventilate? It’s not the same. BBQ is in a class of its own.
Anyway, the real reality is, (see opening sentence – I’m on a continuous loop) I haven’t bought the tickets yet, and they’re insanely expensive, and I am engaging in what is the most extreme case of denial yet in a long and storied career of practicing denial.
I know, I’m sounding whiny. And this is the most boring post ever. But right now tickets to Dallas are around $700 and it’s way cheaper to fly into Austin. But if we fly into Austin… oh dear lord. That adds a three hour trip that looks something like this:
Austin --> 3 HOURS --> Dallas --> 6 HOURS --> Corpus Christi --> 6 HOURS@#%&$%!!! --> Dallas --> 3 HOURS --> Austin (in time for a 6am flight).
THAT IS MADNESS. But if I tell my parents this is too expensive and complicated for me to handle this year, they’ll alternately shout and sob hysterically about how the family has fallen apart and life will never be the same and what’s $1400 compared to SAVING THE FAMILY?
When will the day come where people come to me for the holidays? I know, I know. When I have a baby. Which sounds less complicated right now than trying to figure out all these travel details.
UPDATE: ok, I just talked to my parents and we came up with an alternate plan where they meet me in Austin on the 26th. And they did not shout or sob hysterically. So I was just being a big old stressball for no reason.
UPDATE #2: Did I mention that I have not bought (or lovingly handmade) any presents yet?
UPDATE #3: I bought the tickets. The thing is, I don't know if in 7 days I will be (a) rolling on the floor laughing with my sister saying THANK GOD I BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS or (b) on the road exhausted and too broke to buy a taco saying WHY IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS DID YOU LET ME BUY THOSE TICKETS. To my poor long suffering partner who is asleep on the couch right now. He was so happy an hour ago when he thought I'd decided, screw it, not worth it, this time we're staying home for the holidays.
Anyway, I'll let you know in a week whether it goes direction a or b. Unless it swerves madly in an abab bcbc cdcd ee pattern in which case I will express my feelings in the form of a sonnet.
Criticism & Negative Reviews
This topic is always on my mind, since (a) I have a hard time being criticized, and (b) I am a performer, and part of being grown up and professional and classy means being able to take it in the chin. [correction: ON the chin. Not sure what taking it IN the chin entails but it doesn't sound very classy to me.]
In August when I went to New York with my one-woman show I knew it was going to be a struggle. We would be lucky to get any reviews at all, so I had to be ready for negative reviews, and I had to be ready for them to get personal.
HOW DID YOU DEAL WITH IT, FAITH?
Well, let me tell you. I handled it the one foolproof way I know: by not reading them. Which was good, because I got five reviews in all – two were mostly positive, two were mostly negative, and one was vaguely snarky. I know this because I did have to read them eventually.
There’s a weird thrill that comes from reading a bad review about your work. Maybe it’s the thrill of someone finally punching you in the face after long-simmering tension. There’s catharsis in that: finally, someone told me the truth, that I suck. The danger is that you will take it too much to heart. “Sophomoric and angsty” = IT’S TRUE, I AM SOPHOMORIC AND ANGSTY, what is wrong with me, why am I so immature, why do I suck so much, I should just give this up and be a schoolteacher except I probably suck at that too, etc. etc. etc.
I think it is possible to reach a point where you take the punch but it doesn’t stop you. Where you say, ok, maybe my work is sophomoric and angsty. WHAT ELSE YOU GOT? Or better yet, you take that criticism and use it as promotion. COME SEE FAITH HELMA “DOG PADDLING IN CABARET.” (That is advanced level badassery though, and a topic we will tackle another day: how to reclaim negative criticism and use it for self-promotion).
And you know what, praise is actually trickier to deal with, because if someone says “she is doing the best work of her life,” what do you do? Sit back and say, yes, I am doing the best work of my life? In that case the only thing I’ve figured out (though no one has said I’m doing the best work of my life – so I haven’t had to work too hard) is to allow the praise its brief moment to happy dance with my ego, then tell it to pack up its things and play with someone else.
Maybe that’s something you could do with the negative too: let it flourish and drip inky doubt into your psyche, then push it out the door and say, it’s time to go home now.
So, that’s my method for dealing with reviews. But what about the rest of life, when your criticism doesn’t come in the form of published articles that you can easily avoid or hold at arm's length? AHHHH. Yes. That is much more difficult.
WHAT DO I DO ABOUT BAD REVIEWS OF MY LIFE?
I don't have a clue. But Sarah over at Make Great Stuff talks about taking in feedback as a visual artist, which is fascinating to me – I spend a lot of time thinking about how hard it is to be a performer and how easy it must be to be a visual artist – but of course we’re all putting our hearts and beliefs and risks out there for everyone to see, and that is haaaaaard hard hard.
And over at Fluent Self, Havi talks about the concept of sovereignty a lot – not letting someone else’s shoe-throwing (aka, criticism that comes out of nowhere) throw you off balance, learning how to step back and say, that is your deal, this is my deal, I am going to listen to what you’re saying but not fall into a weeping puddle of self doubt and recrimination.
Well – I have to say I’m not quite that sovereign yet – I am still liable to get tearful if someone calls me out directly. Or if I manage to not show it on the outside, I’m feeling it in the form of a raging hole inside. But it is a helpful image and word to keep in mind. Sovereignty.
And I always love Penelope Trunk. She lays the events of her life out with spare, unrelenting honesty, and if someone tries to tear her down, she ups the ante. An example: family members of the man she was dating were doing searches to find her most salacious posts, and forwarding them to other family members. She mentions this, and then says,
“Wait. You are wondering, right? What they’re finding? Here. Here’s a list of some links.”
And links to the three most salacious things she’s written. Which means she is in control of her story, and not letting other people get hold of it. She’s not hiding – she’s putting it out there even more. I admire this. I think it’s smart, and fucking hard to do.
IT ALL COMES BACK TO BARACK
This may be a weird comparison, but I am reminded of Barack Obama. When a scandal comes out, instead of denying and denying and running and hiding, he uses that opportunity to lay his cards down and speak directly and honestly. When the Reverend Wright scandal first broke, he responded with a beautiful, difficult speech about race. This week, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize (a perfect example of positive praise sometimes being worse than negative praise*), he directly addressed the awkwardness of accepting a peace prize just as he’s going deeper into war:
(Read the entire speech here).
Most politicians these days (maybe always) avoid being honest about difficult topics. But you know what they risk by not talking about the difficult things? They risk the story getting away from them, and I think Barack Obama is incredibly smart to take hold of the story at the beginning, to put his cards on the table and articulate the issue in his own words. To do otherwise is to let secrets take hold, to let the gossip whispered behind backs gain power. You need to be in control of your story, warts and all.
So, that is what I am mulling over today and trying to learn. How to talk about my life and my art and all the mistakes and confusions and slings and arrows, without shame or fear.
* wait, I just realized I may have coined a term: negative praise. Is that when someone praises you for what you're not, like, "oh she'll be fine, she's no dummy" or "he's never been late a day in his life"?
In August when I went to New York with my one-woman show I knew it was going to be a struggle. We would be lucky to get any reviews at all, so I had to be ready for negative reviews, and I had to be ready for them to get personal.
HOW DID YOU DEAL WITH IT, FAITH?
Well, let me tell you. I handled it the one foolproof way I know: by not reading them. Which was good, because I got five reviews in all – two were mostly positive, two were mostly negative, and one was vaguely snarky. I know this because I did have to read them eventually.
There’s a weird thrill that comes from reading a bad review about your work. Maybe it’s the thrill of someone finally punching you in the face after long-simmering tension. There’s catharsis in that: finally, someone told me the truth, that I suck. The danger is that you will take it too much to heart. “Sophomoric and angsty” = IT’S TRUE, I AM SOPHOMORIC AND ANGSTY, what is wrong with me, why am I so immature, why do I suck so much, I should just give this up and be a schoolteacher except I probably suck at that too, etc. etc. etc.
I think it is possible to reach a point where you take the punch but it doesn’t stop you. Where you say, ok, maybe my work is sophomoric and angsty. WHAT ELSE YOU GOT? Or better yet, you take that criticism and use it as promotion. COME SEE FAITH HELMA “DOG PADDLING IN CABARET.” (That is advanced level badassery though, and a topic we will tackle another day: how to reclaim negative criticism and use it for self-promotion).
And you know what, praise is actually trickier to deal with, because if someone says “she is doing the best work of her life,” what do you do? Sit back and say, yes, I am doing the best work of my life? In that case the only thing I’ve figured out (though no one has said I’m doing the best work of my life – so I haven’t had to work too hard) is to allow the praise its brief moment to happy dance with my ego, then tell it to pack up its things and play with someone else.
Maybe that’s something you could do with the negative too: let it flourish and drip inky doubt into your psyche, then push it out the door and say, it’s time to go home now.
So, that’s my method for dealing with reviews. But what about the rest of life, when your criticism doesn’t come in the form of published articles that you can easily avoid or hold at arm's length? AHHHH. Yes. That is much more difficult.
WHAT DO I DO ABOUT BAD REVIEWS OF MY LIFE?
I don't have a clue. But Sarah over at Make Great Stuff talks about taking in feedback as a visual artist, which is fascinating to me – I spend a lot of time thinking about how hard it is to be a performer and how easy it must be to be a visual artist – but of course we’re all putting our hearts and beliefs and risks out there for everyone to see, and that is haaaaaard hard hard.
And over at Fluent Self, Havi talks about the concept of sovereignty a lot – not letting someone else’s shoe-throwing (aka, criticism that comes out of nowhere) throw you off balance, learning how to step back and say, that is your deal, this is my deal, I am going to listen to what you’re saying but not fall into a weeping puddle of self doubt and recrimination.
Well – I have to say I’m not quite that sovereign yet – I am still liable to get tearful if someone calls me out directly. Or if I manage to not show it on the outside, I’m feeling it in the form of a raging hole inside. But it is a helpful image and word to keep in mind. Sovereignty.
And I always love Penelope Trunk. She lays the events of her life out with spare, unrelenting honesty, and if someone tries to tear her down, she ups the ante. An example: family members of the man she was dating were doing searches to find her most salacious posts, and forwarding them to other family members. She mentions this, and then says,
“Wait. You are wondering, right? What they’re finding? Here. Here’s a list of some links.”
And links to the three most salacious things she’s written. Which means she is in control of her story, and not letting other people get hold of it. She’s not hiding – she’s putting it out there even more. I admire this. I think it’s smart, and fucking hard to do.
IT ALL COMES BACK TO BARACK
This may be a weird comparison, but I am reminded of Barack Obama. When a scandal comes out, instead of denying and denying and running and hiding, he uses that opportunity to lay his cards down and speak directly and honestly. When the Reverend Wright scandal first broke, he responded with a beautiful, difficult speech about race. This week, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize (a perfect example of positive praise sometimes being worse than negative praise*), he directly addressed the awkwardness of accepting a peace prize just as he’s going deeper into war:
But perhaps the most profound issue surrounding my receipt of this prize is the fact that I am the Commander-in-Chief of the military of a nation in the midst of two wars. One of these wars is winding down. The other is a conflict that America did not seek; one in which we are joined by 42 other countries -- including Norway -- in an effort to defend ourselves and all nations from further attacks.
Still, we are at war, and I'm responsible for the deployment of thousands of young Americans to battle in a distant land. Some will kill, and some will be killed. And so I come here with an acute sense of the costs of armed conflict -- filled with difficult questions about the relationship between war and peace, and our effort to replace one with the other.
(Read the entire speech here).
Most politicians these days (maybe always) avoid being honest about difficult topics. But you know what they risk by not talking about the difficult things? They risk the story getting away from them, and I think Barack Obama is incredibly smart to take hold of the story at the beginning, to put his cards on the table and articulate the issue in his own words. To do otherwise is to let secrets take hold, to let the gossip whispered behind backs gain power. You need to be in control of your story, warts and all.
So, that is what I am mulling over today and trying to learn. How to talk about my life and my art and all the mistakes and confusions and slings and arrows, without shame or fear.
* wait, I just realized I may have coined a term: negative praise. Is that when someone praises you for what you're not, like, "oh she'll be fine, she's no dummy" or "he's never been late a day in his life"?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Random Manifesto #1
So this is ironic. I had this whole ongoing list of items for my manifesto, and I was waiting until the perfect time to post it. Then through a series of complicated actions still unbeknownst (doesn't that seem like a fake word?) to me, I just now accidentally erased the entire thing.
So I think that’s a sign. It means – life is too short to effing POLISH your manifesto. Manifestos are not masterpieces. You dash them off and move on to ACTION.
Now that I am forced to start with a clean slate – what do I care about, right now? What will I stand for and what will I not stand for? What items from that list can I even remember? Here goes:
1. No more crazy bosses. No bosses at all. I don’t know how I’m going to make this work but I don’t want another crazy boss.
2. No making excuses for artistic geniuses. Like Roman Polanski. You know what, I’m not even convinced he’s a genius. The Piano was okay. Wait, his movie was The Pianist, right? Not The Piano. Which was in my opinion a terrible film. I would support packing Jane Campion off to prison even if she didn’t rape a child, just to stop her from making more overwrought movies about pianos and people’s fingers getting chopped off and Holly Hunter and Harvey Keitel getting it on. Wasn’t her last movie about Meg Ryan and boxing and weird sex? That sounds like a good premise but I bet it wasn’t.
But we were talking about Roman Polanski. The Pianist was ok but not as great as everyone said it was. And the reason this is on the manifesto is: I don’t care how effing great his films are, doesn’t excuse his actions. His wife was horribly murdered and that is sad, but also not a good excuse for nice-raping* a twelve year old. Sorry.
* nice rape: a term I just made up, to describe a scenario where it’s definitely rape but the guy was super sweet and drove you home afterwards, and maybe had a bitchin’ hot tub and bought your mom a car. In case my sarcasm isn’t reading: this is not a serious term and please do not start using it. God. Now I sound like I’m minimizing rape. Sorry about that.
3. NOT sorry! Goddamn it. No more apologies. You don’t APOLOGIZE in your manifesto.
4. I guess this means I can’t make excuses for Michael Jackson, either. True, they did not prove he was a pedophile, but it doesn’t look good. Especially now that the one kid’s father killed himself. Hm. Well, I’m not making excuses for him personally, but the fact that he may have been a pedophile doesn’t mean I don’t love his music.
5. Beets are a magical food and I don’t know why they have such a blah reputation in the U.S. Boil them in water with onions, carrots, celery and then squeeze in lemon juice and you have a magical, delicious elixir that wards off colds and sore throats.
6. You know what, I’m a cryer. I believe in letting it all out sometimes. Sometimes everything is not okay and the only way to feel better is sit down and feel bad about it and have a good old fashioned cry. All together now: it’s all right to cry. Crying takes the sad out of you. It’s all right to cry – you just might feel better!
So, to sum up my life philosophy as manifested here, right now I stand for crying, Michael Jackson and beets, and I do not stand for Roman Polanski, Jane Campion, apologizing and crazy bosses. Huh.
So I think that’s a sign. It means – life is too short to effing POLISH your manifesto. Manifestos are not masterpieces. You dash them off and move on to ACTION.
Now that I am forced to start with a clean slate – what do I care about, right now? What will I stand for and what will I not stand for? What items from that list can I even remember? Here goes:
1. No more crazy bosses. No bosses at all. I don’t know how I’m going to make this work but I don’t want another crazy boss.
2. No making excuses for artistic geniuses. Like Roman Polanski. You know what, I’m not even convinced he’s a genius. The Piano was okay. Wait, his movie was The Pianist, right? Not The Piano. Which was in my opinion a terrible film. I would support packing Jane Campion off to prison even if she didn’t rape a child, just to stop her from making more overwrought movies about pianos and people’s fingers getting chopped off and Holly Hunter and Harvey Keitel getting it on. Wasn’t her last movie about Meg Ryan and boxing and weird sex? That sounds like a good premise but I bet it wasn’t.
But we were talking about Roman Polanski. The Pianist was ok but not as great as everyone said it was. And the reason this is on the manifesto is: I don’t care how effing great his films are, doesn’t excuse his actions. His wife was horribly murdered and that is sad, but also not a good excuse for nice-raping* a twelve year old. Sorry.
* nice rape: a term I just made up, to describe a scenario where it’s definitely rape but the guy was super sweet and drove you home afterwards, and maybe had a bitchin’ hot tub and bought your mom a car. In case my sarcasm isn’t reading: this is not a serious term and please do not start using it. God. Now I sound like I’m minimizing rape. Sorry about that.
3. NOT sorry! Goddamn it. No more apologies. You don’t APOLOGIZE in your manifesto.
4. I guess this means I can’t make excuses for Michael Jackson, either. True, they did not prove he was a pedophile, but it doesn’t look good. Especially now that the one kid’s father killed himself. Hm. Well, I’m not making excuses for him personally, but the fact that he may have been a pedophile doesn’t mean I don’t love his music.
5. Beets are a magical food and I don’t know why they have such a blah reputation in the U.S. Boil them in water with onions, carrots, celery and then squeeze in lemon juice and you have a magical, delicious elixir that wards off colds and sore throats.
6. You know what, I’m a cryer. I believe in letting it all out sometimes. Sometimes everything is not okay and the only way to feel better is sit down and feel bad about it and have a good old fashioned cry. All together now: it’s all right to cry. Crying takes the sad out of you. It’s all right to cry – you just might feel better!
So, to sum up my life philosophy as manifested here, right now I stand for crying, Michael Jackson and beets, and I do not stand for Roman Polanski, Jane Campion, apologizing and crazy bosses. Huh.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I'm different, different, different
I posted this over on the Hand2Mouth blog, perhaps you'd like to read it?
On not being different from everyone else
On not being different from everyone else
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
I drew a picture of my business plan and it looks like a kindergarten classroom
Hm. I guess the title kind of says it all there, doesn’t it.
So I read about this exercise, where you draw a picture of what your business plan looks like. Here is my problem. My business isn’t really a business. It’s a weird combination of artist haven / social service agency. It looks like a kindergarten classroom, if kindergarteners had an amp/mic/delay pedal station. And a waterless shower where they get to sing their favorite songs and shout imagined rants / visionary speeches.
Problem: it didn’t really answer my basic question, which is: WHAT AM I SELLING?
I am selling dreams and rainbows and story time and a place to talk about your fears and practice becoming the badass you already are but don’t know it.
Yeah. Um… is that something I can sell? What would make me qualified to provide that? Can I just say I want to do that, and it’s cool? Will anyone buy it? Am I wacky enough to pull something like that off?
Two years ago I went to this women-in-theatre conference in Denmark that blew my mind. Not in the ways I expected. There were a lot of women doing solo work there and I came away thinking, “the last thing I want to do is make a solo show” which apparently subconsciously translated into “I will immediately start making a solo show” because that’s what I did. But that is a topic for another day (I’m going to keep mentioning my solo show but always say it’s a topic for another day and then never get around to discussing it straight on. FYI.)
Anyway, conference: the thing that blew my mind was having conversations with women of all ages, backgrounds and nationalities – all of whom were making crazy, groundbreaking theater nd all of whom were having the same struggles, triumphs and failures I was having. I bonded with women from Sweden, India, Egypt, England, Peru, Spain – women in their fifties, thirties, twenties – with or without babies, with or without careers, with or without money. Amazing.
One of the workshops I did was with this Australian artist, Margaret Cameron. At first she was so woo woo that I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. But halfway through she won me over. She had these great mantras – she would have us walk around and hug each other and say, “what if where I am right now is exactly where I need to be?” Then she’d say, “I know it isn’t… but what if it was?”
She kept asking over and over and it finally sunk in: what if I stopped doubting myself for ten minutes? What if I believed that I was on the right track? What if everything in my life has prepared me for this exact instant?
Maybe this sounds trite – but the thing is, as a woman (maybe for men too, I don’t know) I struggle with these doubts and fears EVERY DAY. It seems radical to think of going even one day without them.
And I would love to get to where I can embrace my own wacky, woo woo, stumbling dreams. That is what I want: to believe in myself enough to go there, to lead people in wacky, crazy workshops where they spend half the time thinking it’s total bullshit and then have a breakthrough. To have a space where I can work on my stuff and other people can too. Where they can show up and I’ll make them a cup of tea and we’ll sit on a big old rug in the middle of the room and I’ll pull out a book and read from it and we’ll put some music on and dance out the stress. I mean, if a space like that existed and I could pay $10 and spend an hour there, I’d go. But maybe I’m alone in that. And maybe that’s a silly way to approach business.
Well, we'll see. I need someone to take me from the kindergarten classroom drawing on posterboard to the part where it's an actual business. Maybe I can partner with a therapist who already has a practice and would like someone to be out in the lobby sitting on a rug singing songs and making tea and stuff.
ARE YOU A THERAPIST WHO NEEDS A WACKED OUT ATTENDANT? If so, call me.
So I read about this exercise, where you draw a picture of what your business plan looks like. Here is my problem. My business isn’t really a business. It’s a weird combination of artist haven / social service agency. It looks like a kindergarten classroom, if kindergarteners had an amp/mic/delay pedal station. And a waterless shower where they get to sing their favorite songs and shout imagined rants / visionary speeches.
Problem: it didn’t really answer my basic question, which is: WHAT AM I SELLING?
I am selling dreams and rainbows and story time and a place to talk about your fears and practice becoming the badass you already are but don’t know it.
Yeah. Um… is that something I can sell? What would make me qualified to provide that? Can I just say I want to do that, and it’s cool? Will anyone buy it? Am I wacky enough to pull something like that off?
Two years ago I went to this women-in-theatre conference in Denmark that blew my mind. Not in the ways I expected. There were a lot of women doing solo work there and I came away thinking, “the last thing I want to do is make a solo show” which apparently subconsciously translated into “I will immediately start making a solo show” because that’s what I did. But that is a topic for another day (I’m going to keep mentioning my solo show but always say it’s a topic for another day and then never get around to discussing it straight on. FYI.)
Anyway, conference: the thing that blew my mind was having conversations with women of all ages, backgrounds and nationalities – all of whom were making crazy, groundbreaking theater nd all of whom were having the same struggles, triumphs and failures I was having. I bonded with women from Sweden, India, Egypt, England, Peru, Spain – women in their fifties, thirties, twenties – with or without babies, with or without careers, with or without money. Amazing.
One of the workshops I did was with this Australian artist, Margaret Cameron. At first she was so woo woo that I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. But halfway through she won me over. She had these great mantras – she would have us walk around and hug each other and say, “what if where I am right now is exactly where I need to be?” Then she’d say, “I know it isn’t… but what if it was?”
She kept asking over and over and it finally sunk in: what if I stopped doubting myself for ten minutes? What if I believed that I was on the right track? What if everything in my life has prepared me for this exact instant?
Maybe this sounds trite – but the thing is, as a woman (maybe for men too, I don’t know) I struggle with these doubts and fears EVERY DAY. It seems radical to think of going even one day without them.
And I would love to get to where I can embrace my own wacky, woo woo, stumbling dreams. That is what I want: to believe in myself enough to go there, to lead people in wacky, crazy workshops where they spend half the time thinking it’s total bullshit and then have a breakthrough. To have a space where I can work on my stuff and other people can too. Where they can show up and I’ll make them a cup of tea and we’ll sit on a big old rug in the middle of the room and I’ll pull out a book and read from it and we’ll put some music on and dance out the stress. I mean, if a space like that existed and I could pay $10 and spend an hour there, I’d go. But maybe I’m alone in that. And maybe that’s a silly way to approach business.
Well, we'll see. I need someone to take me from the kindergarten classroom drawing on posterboard to the part where it's an actual business. Maybe I can partner with a therapist who already has a practice and would like someone to be out in the lobby sitting on a rug singing songs and making tea and stuff.
ARE YOU A THERAPIST WHO NEEDS A WACKED OUT ATTENDANT? If so, call me.
Friday, October 30, 2009
How to Rock at Karaoke
Since I'm on a "how to" kick. And since singing is occupying too much brain space. I present to you: my SEVEN STEPS TO ROCKING AT KARAOKE.
Actually - I don't know that following these steps will guarantee that you become a karaoke star. They're really just my arbitrary, iron-clad rules for how one should approach karaoke. Are there other metals you can be clad in, if you're not absolutely certain? If so, I'd rather call these rules copper-clad.
COPPER-CLAD! If I ever form a clog-dancing a cappella women's celtic singing group, this is what we'll call ourselves. Not, as my dad suggested, LOVIN' COVEN.
Now, I should say before I go into the SEVEN STEPS: I am assuming that you are going out to sing karaoke with a group of good friends who will stand up and applaud you no matter what you do. God help you if you go by yourself. That is madness (though, scroll down to read the craziest karaoke story of my life, to find out what happens when you go karaoke-ing by yourself). It is much easier to be crazy and stupid if you have good friends around you cheering you on. AND BY GOD, I WANT YOU TO BE CRAZY AND STUPID. It is your inalienable right.
Step 1: Do not give a fuck. Attitude is the most important thing. If you have a crazy hat or scarf or some other costume element, wear it. The crazier the better. People will love it. Seriously, this trumps singing ability any day. You can be a great singer and bomb at karaoke by having no presence. You can be a terrible singer but rock out by being flamboyant. Presence is way more important than hitting the right notes.
Step 2: Pick a song you know backwards and forwards and love with all your heart. Say, “A Little Less Conversation, A Lot More Action.” There is a reason someone always sings a Neil Diamond song at a karaoke bar, and it’s because his songs are very easy. Same goes for anything by Phil Collins, Nancy Sinatra and Jimmy Buffett (bless his heart). But you’ll be fine if you pick something you sing along to on the radio or in the shower. Don’t think about it too much, just pick something. And word to the wise: be careful of Pink Floyd, Tina Turner and Janis Joplin. They are harder than you think.
Step 3: Sing it with gusto – but not so much gusto that your voice cracks. Keep a tiny bit of yourself pulled back so you can hear your voice and how it sounds.
Step 4: If you can do it without looking at the words, work in some basic moves – turning your back on the audience then whipping back around, laying down on the floor with arms outstretched. Again, it’s not precision that counts here, it’s guts and enthusiasm. Which is why people get drunk.
Step 5: Read the crowd. If you’re in a country bar, this might not be the time to bust out your favorite Mary J. Blige song. Are there a lot of old drunks at the bar? They might appreciate some Hank Williams. Do you find yourself surrounded by drunk frat boys? Dear god, this is not the time to sing Tori Amos (or maybe it is… I am a fan of the “sing a ‘fuck you’ song and walk out the door” technique, myself).
Step 6: Don’t repeat a song that you already rocked the shit out of the last time you were out. You will likely have a diminished effect. It’s better to move on to new terrain, and come back to that one when you’re in a new situation – a new crowd, a new town, after a 6 month absence. If you do the same song every time… I don’t know, it just feels like cheating. I recommend this formula: one new song, one core song.
Step 7: What to do if you bomb. Well, you know what? It happens to everyone. You don’t have any control, so you’re likely to bomb once in a while no matter how good a singer and performer you are. So bomb big. If you realize in the first 3 notes that you don’t actually know this song, sing it loud and sing it proud. Ask the crowd to help you out. Stop singing altogether and launch into a ridiculous dance routine. Go into the crowd and give the mic to the person who is singing along the loudest. Sing horribly, gleefully off-tune. Or you can always try speak-shouting with passion, that works sometimes.
Things to remember: some of the worst karaoke experiences I have had involved songs I thought I knew backwards and forwards. Some of the best I’ve had are with songs I was totally unsure about going in (or didn’t know at all). Of course, some of the worst were also songs I realized with a sinking heart upon hearing the first chords that I didn’t know after all. But whatever, the point is, either way it’s done after three minutes and the crowd doesn’t care that much.
And a story to bring this all together, entitled My Craziest Karaoke Experience:
Once I was at my favorite karaoke bar – Chopsticks III, the How Can Be lounge – and someone was celebrating a birthday with a huge party of friends, with a huge birthday cake sitting untouched on the table. A man walked in, and when his name was called he put a chair on the dance floor and proceeded to do a seriously bizarre version of “A Little Less Conversation, A Lot More Action.” He started out sitting in the chair and ended flailing around the room, screaming the song at the top of his lungs. When he was done, he put down the mic, grabbed the cake and walked out the door. Five minutes later the bartender asked if anyone knew who that guy was, because he’d smashed the cake on someone’s car and driven off. That has nothing to do with rocking it, it’s just a weird story. But man, even though that guy was genuinely crazy and he ruined that poor girl’s cake, it is the best karaoke story I have.
Actually - I don't know that following these steps will guarantee that you become a karaoke star. They're really just my arbitrary, iron-clad rules for how one should approach karaoke. Are there other metals you can be clad in, if you're not absolutely certain? If so, I'd rather call these rules copper-clad.
COPPER-CLAD! If I ever form a clog-dancing a cappella women's celtic singing group, this is what we'll call ourselves. Not, as my dad suggested, LOVIN' COVEN.
Now, I should say before I go into the SEVEN STEPS: I am assuming that you are going out to sing karaoke with a group of good friends who will stand up and applaud you no matter what you do. God help you if you go by yourself. That is madness (though, scroll down to read the craziest karaoke story of my life, to find out what happens when you go karaoke-ing by yourself). It is much easier to be crazy and stupid if you have good friends around you cheering you on. AND BY GOD, I WANT YOU TO BE CRAZY AND STUPID. It is your inalienable right.
Step 1: Do not give a fuck. Attitude is the most important thing. If you have a crazy hat or scarf or some other costume element, wear it. The crazier the better. People will love it. Seriously, this trumps singing ability any day. You can be a great singer and bomb at karaoke by having no presence. You can be a terrible singer but rock out by being flamboyant. Presence is way more important than hitting the right notes.
Step 2: Pick a song you know backwards and forwards and love with all your heart. Say, “A Little Less Conversation, A Lot More Action.” There is a reason someone always sings a Neil Diamond song at a karaoke bar, and it’s because his songs are very easy. Same goes for anything by Phil Collins, Nancy Sinatra and Jimmy Buffett (bless his heart). But you’ll be fine if you pick something you sing along to on the radio or in the shower. Don’t think about it too much, just pick something. And word to the wise: be careful of Pink Floyd, Tina Turner and Janis Joplin. They are harder than you think.
Step 3: Sing it with gusto – but not so much gusto that your voice cracks. Keep a tiny bit of yourself pulled back so you can hear your voice and how it sounds.
Step 4: If you can do it without looking at the words, work in some basic moves – turning your back on the audience then whipping back around, laying down on the floor with arms outstretched. Again, it’s not precision that counts here, it’s guts and enthusiasm. Which is why people get drunk.
Step 5: Read the crowd. If you’re in a country bar, this might not be the time to bust out your favorite Mary J. Blige song. Are there a lot of old drunks at the bar? They might appreciate some Hank Williams. Do you find yourself surrounded by drunk frat boys? Dear god, this is not the time to sing Tori Amos (or maybe it is… I am a fan of the “sing a ‘fuck you’ song and walk out the door” technique, myself).
Step 6: Don’t repeat a song that you already rocked the shit out of the last time you were out. You will likely have a diminished effect. It’s better to move on to new terrain, and come back to that one when you’re in a new situation – a new crowd, a new town, after a 6 month absence. If you do the same song every time… I don’t know, it just feels like cheating. I recommend this formula: one new song, one core song.
Step 7: What to do if you bomb. Well, you know what? It happens to everyone. You don’t have any control, so you’re likely to bomb once in a while no matter how good a singer and performer you are. So bomb big. If you realize in the first 3 notes that you don’t actually know this song, sing it loud and sing it proud. Ask the crowd to help you out. Stop singing altogether and launch into a ridiculous dance routine. Go into the crowd and give the mic to the person who is singing along the loudest. Sing horribly, gleefully off-tune. Or you can always try speak-shouting with passion, that works sometimes.
Things to remember: some of the worst karaoke experiences I have had involved songs I thought I knew backwards and forwards. Some of the best I’ve had are with songs I was totally unsure about going in (or didn’t know at all). Of course, some of the worst were also songs I realized with a sinking heart upon hearing the first chords that I didn’t know after all. But whatever, the point is, either way it’s done after three minutes and the crowd doesn’t care that much.
And a story to bring this all together, entitled My Craziest Karaoke Experience:
Once I was at my favorite karaoke bar – Chopsticks III, the How Can Be lounge – and someone was celebrating a birthday with a huge party of friends, with a huge birthday cake sitting untouched on the table. A man walked in, and when his name was called he put a chair on the dance floor and proceeded to do a seriously bizarre version of “A Little Less Conversation, A Lot More Action.” He started out sitting in the chair and ended flailing around the room, screaming the song at the top of his lungs. When he was done, he put down the mic, grabbed the cake and walked out the door. Five minutes later the bartender asked if anyone knew who that guy was, because he’d smashed the cake on someone’s car and driven off. That has nothing to do with rocking it, it’s just a weird story. But man, even though that guy was genuinely crazy and he ruined that poor girl’s cake, it is the best karaoke story I have.
How to Write Songs
I didn’t write my first song until about a year and a half ago. I had thought of myself as someone who had no talent for songwriting for so long that I didn’t even realize that I had written a song until two months after the fact. People kept asking me, “who wrote that song?” and I would say, “oh, this friend of mine helped put the music together, and then I put some words over that.” And then they’d say, “so, you wrote it,” and I’d say, “oh no no no, I just took the words from this old fairy tale and rewrote them a bit.” Finally a musician friend of mine told me that this COUNTS AS SONG WRITING.
And so it started to dawn on me that I could write songs.
Like every other person my age, I can play 3 chords on the guitar and had tried my hand at writing songs before. They always sounded clumsy and too rhyme-y and embarrassingly sappy so I decided I didn’t have a talent for putting words to music.
But this was different. I’d set out to cover songs and make a weird performance piece – and somehow because I wasn’t trying to write a song, a song emerged.
Once I’d done that I realized that it was in fact quite easy to write a song. My favorite method – since it’s what got me started – is to take a line from a poem or song you love. Let it worm its way in your brain out of context, like a mantra. In my case it was this line, from the German fairy tale I was basing my performance on: where did you come from, enchanted girl?
So, I wrote a whole song called, “Enchanted Girl” with that line as its chorus. I stole all the words from the crazy fairy tale. I took the trippiest phrases and mashed them up out of context and changed things around to make it rhyme and work rhythmically with the music. Voila! A song. Turns out that’s totally legitimate!
Here's a picture from the book, by Heinrich de la Motte Fouque, illustrated by Arthur Rackham:
And here's a picture from my show. I'm just giving you some visuals here so you don't get too bored by all the blathering on about songs.
In general, I find copying a song you love to be a great place to start. Here is the great paradox: if you set out to make something original, it’s going to sound like a copy of someone who did it better anyway. But if you SET OUT to copy someone, people will notice your originality. Or compare you to someone you didn’t even know you were copying.
In my case, people keep talking about the influence of Bjork and PJ Harvey on my songs when here I thought I was ripping off Stevie Nicks. And to be perfectly honest PJ Harvey wasn’t really on my radar before people started comparing me to her. Then I had to find out so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot who didn’t even know which album I was ripping off.
Another thing I’ve learned: the less words, the better. Words in songs are a blunt force. They just need to grab you. For years I thought a song had to be all complicated but if you start with the most basic, simple point – say, I AM FEELING SAD TODAY – or maybe WE WILL ROCK YOU – it will get more complicated and nuanced the more you work on it. Usually. Or if it doesn’t you can keep it to yourself. I wrote a song, "Black Valley," which I thought was blunt and powerful but finally realized was only powerful to me. To everyone else it was just repetitive and boring. So I stopped performing it.
Anyway. Point is: I wish song writing weren’t so shrouded in mystery and that more people talked about how to do it.
Though it’s ironic that I’m writing about how easy song writing is today because at the moment I am struggling mightily with a song I’m trying to write for the new Hand2Mouth show, Everyone Who Looks Like You. It’s an attempt to capture the kind of frustrated yelling that comes out of a family fight. In, you know, song form. We’re calling it the Yelling song or the Screaming song but unfortunately right now it sounds more like the Groaning Zombie song or the Polish Funeral song. And all I can think about is how impossible it is and how little skill and experience I have as a songwriter. So… yeah.
And so it started to dawn on me that I could write songs.
Like every other person my age, I can play 3 chords on the guitar and had tried my hand at writing songs before. They always sounded clumsy and too rhyme-y and embarrassingly sappy so I decided I didn’t have a talent for putting words to music.
But this was different. I’d set out to cover songs and make a weird performance piece – and somehow because I wasn’t trying to write a song, a song emerged.
Once I’d done that I realized that it was in fact quite easy to write a song. My favorite method – since it’s what got me started – is to take a line from a poem or song you love. Let it worm its way in your brain out of context, like a mantra. In my case it was this line, from the German fairy tale I was basing my performance on: where did you come from, enchanted girl?
So, I wrote a whole song called, “Enchanted Girl” with that line as its chorus. I stole all the words from the crazy fairy tale. I took the trippiest phrases and mashed them up out of context and changed things around to make it rhyme and work rhythmically with the music. Voila! A song. Turns out that’s totally legitimate!
Here's a picture from the book, by Heinrich de la Motte Fouque, illustrated by Arthur Rackham:
And here's a picture from my show. I'm just giving you some visuals here so you don't get too bored by all the blathering on about songs.
In general, I find copying a song you love to be a great place to start. Here is the great paradox: if you set out to make something original, it’s going to sound like a copy of someone who did it better anyway. But if you SET OUT to copy someone, people will notice your originality. Or compare you to someone you didn’t even know you were copying.
In my case, people keep talking about the influence of Bjork and PJ Harvey on my songs when here I thought I was ripping off Stevie Nicks. And to be perfectly honest PJ Harvey wasn’t really on my radar before people started comparing me to her. Then I had to find out so I wouldn’t sound like an idiot who didn’t even know which album I was ripping off.
Another thing I’ve learned: the less words, the better. Words in songs are a blunt force. They just need to grab you. For years I thought a song had to be all complicated but if you start with the most basic, simple point – say, I AM FEELING SAD TODAY – or maybe WE WILL ROCK YOU – it will get more complicated and nuanced the more you work on it. Usually. Or if it doesn’t you can keep it to yourself. I wrote a song, "Black Valley," which I thought was blunt and powerful but finally realized was only powerful to me. To everyone else it was just repetitive and boring. So I stopped performing it.
Anyway. Point is: I wish song writing weren’t so shrouded in mystery and that more people talked about how to do it.
Though it’s ironic that I’m writing about how easy song writing is today because at the moment I am struggling mightily with a song I’m trying to write for the new Hand2Mouth show, Everyone Who Looks Like You. It’s an attempt to capture the kind of frustrated yelling that comes out of a family fight. In, you know, song form. We’re calling it the Yelling song or the Screaming song but unfortunately right now it sounds more like the Groaning Zombie song or the Polish Funeral song. And all I can think about is how impossible it is and how little skill and experience I have as a songwriter. So… yeah.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Rant #2: Emerging Artists
Ok, you know what drives me crazy?
When people say things like: you are lucky to be an emerging artist. If you were a big old established arts organization you’d have all these PATRONS and FUNDERS and MILLION DOLLAR BUDGETS dragging you down. You are light and free! You can do whatever you want! NOBODY TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO!
You know why that is? Because we (by we I mean the crazy performance troupe I’ve worked with for ten years) are our own bosses. So we’re telling ourselves what to do. Except we don’t know what to do. How do you retain audiences? How do you split up the administrative work? How do you market your work to the people who will like it most? Who are those people? And how do you get those people to bring their friend who inherited a family fortune and could maybe give you some MONEY? And oh yeah, how do you do these things at a pace faster than GLACIAL?
We have figured a lot of things out. We’ve hired consultants and we’ve been smart and frugal and we know more than we did ten years ago, yes. For instance: do not put a nineteen year old pyromaniac in charge of fire for your touring outdoor spectacle. That is something we learned the hard way.
But we still don’t know how to pay ourselves anything near a salary. And it is getting harder and harder. We work our asses off, and for what? It is fun and we are free to do whatever we want. But… come on! We aren’t 24 anymore so we need some effing money! Isn’t there a middle ground grant, for when you reach your 30s and you’re not an art star genius yet but you’re doing pretty good? Could someone please support me while I figure out how to jump to BADASS PROFESSIONAL from the current spot I’m in, which is MUDDLING THROUGH SOMEHOW AND OH BY THE WAY I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A BABY?
So, point is, I’m not feeling very LIGHT AND FREE at the moment. Not feeling like we can do whatever we want. Not feeling drunk on freedom and artistic integrity. I’d like less integrity and more MONEY. And maybe some health care. Which maybe sounds kind of blasé and hip but trust me, it’s just weary and boring except I’m not 86 yet so I can’t wear an old lady turban and smoke endlessly while talking about the daggers of life. I’m 32. If I try that I’ll just look like an asshole. Which would be fine if I had money but no one wants to hang out with a poor asshole with a victim complex who can’t even buy them an effing beer. (Unless she's wearing a turban... note to self: TIME TO START ROCKING THE OLD LADY TURBAN).
Ok, so, like all good rants this is not particularly coherent. All I’m saying is: don’t talk to me about the joys and glories of being an emerging artist. I've been emerging. I'd like to stop emerging and start GETTING SOMEWHERE.
When people say things like: you are lucky to be an emerging artist. If you were a big old established arts organization you’d have all these PATRONS and FUNDERS and MILLION DOLLAR BUDGETS dragging you down. You are light and free! You can do whatever you want! NOBODY TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO!
You know why that is? Because we (by we I mean the crazy performance troupe I’ve worked with for ten years) are our own bosses. So we’re telling ourselves what to do. Except we don’t know what to do. How do you retain audiences? How do you split up the administrative work? How do you market your work to the people who will like it most? Who are those people? And how do you get those people to bring their friend who inherited a family fortune and could maybe give you some MONEY? And oh yeah, how do you do these things at a pace faster than GLACIAL?
We have figured a lot of things out. We’ve hired consultants and we’ve been smart and frugal and we know more than we did ten years ago, yes. For instance: do not put a nineteen year old pyromaniac in charge of fire for your touring outdoor spectacle. That is something we learned the hard way.
But we still don’t know how to pay ourselves anything near a salary. And it is getting harder and harder. We work our asses off, and for what? It is fun and we are free to do whatever we want. But… come on! We aren’t 24 anymore so we need some effing money! Isn’t there a middle ground grant, for when you reach your 30s and you’re not an art star genius yet but you’re doing pretty good? Could someone please support me while I figure out how to jump to BADASS PROFESSIONAL from the current spot I’m in, which is MUDDLING THROUGH SOMEHOW AND OH BY THE WAY I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A BABY?
So, point is, I’m not feeling very LIGHT AND FREE at the moment. Not feeling like we can do whatever we want. Not feeling drunk on freedom and artistic integrity. I’d like less integrity and more MONEY. And maybe some health care. Which maybe sounds kind of blasé and hip but trust me, it’s just weary and boring except I’m not 86 yet so I can’t wear an old lady turban and smoke endlessly while talking about the daggers of life. I’m 32. If I try that I’ll just look like an asshole. Which would be fine if I had money but no one wants to hang out with a poor asshole with a victim complex who can’t even buy them an effing beer. (Unless she's wearing a turban... note to self: TIME TO START ROCKING THE OLD LADY TURBAN).
Ok, so, like all good rants this is not particularly coherent. All I’m saying is: don’t talk to me about the joys and glories of being an emerging artist. I've been emerging. I'd like to stop emerging and start GETTING SOMEWHERE.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Moving out to Oregon, wide open
On September 9, 1999 (just over ten years ago!) my best friend, Aryn, and I got into my blue Honda accord in the driveway of my parents’ house in Lansing, Michigan and set off on a journey. It’s strange to look back on that moment. I was doing something adventurous and foolhardy – I knew it – and I was thrilled. We had just graduated from college that May, and we both had gone to school close to home. For me, it was a gut shot of lightning – if I didn't leave now, I never would. And if I stayed – I couldn’t see what I would do if I stayed.
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know if I would come back. I didn’t know what I wanted to do other than write and find people like me. I wanted to find my generation’s equivalent of Greenwich Village in the 30s. I wanted to find where things were going on, which was most certainly not in Lansing, Michigan. So my best friend and I set off on a road trip. Classic. We had maps and sleeping bags and a tent and a car, and we’d saved up enough money to be on the road for at least two months before we’d need to find a place to live and a job. It seemed like a good plan. My parents and sister waved goodbye from the driveway, and Aryn and I set off on our vision quest.
It was, not surprisingly, hard. Not romantic roll up your sleeves hard, but chilly, self-doubting, running out of money and what the fuck am I doing hard. We were lonely and lost (we had maps but our inner compasses were spinning) and we quickly ran out of things to talk about. We had adventures, yes – but not the kind of adventures that lead to immediate self-knowledge. Or any knowledge at all, other than ‘driving through the Rocky Mountains during a whiteout is fucking terrifying,’ or ‘the entire state of New Mexico is haunted.’ I thought I would have dreams, grand dreams that would reveal my mission to me – but instead I kept dreaming about high school friends I’d lost touch with (dreams, by the way, that were trying to tell me something, just not what I was looking for – but that is a topic for another day).
We got to Portland after 2½ months, and stayed with my aunt and uncle in Yamhill for three weeks while we looked for jobs and an apartment (and thank god for them, because I don’t know what I would have done without their kindness & love). I got hired as a temp and spent the last of my money on work clothes (hiking boots and dirty jeans were not going to cut it) and an apartment in southeast Portland. Then we had to wait two months before we had enough money to buy lamps and furniture. It was December, dark and rainy. We didn’t know anyone in Portland and we couldn’t afford to go out and do anything so we would sit in our plain, carpeted apartment decorated with one Chinese medicine poster we’d bought at Saturday Market, drinking tea and listening to the radio. In the dark. Because we couldn't afford a lamp. During the day sometimes we’d go to a coffee shop and sit and listen to people and try to figure out how to meet them (because on top of everything else we were both introverts and very sensitive people).
For the first time in my life, I was totally on my own. And though I would do it over again, I don’t recommend it. It was terrible. I spent at least six months lonely and poor and cut off from the world and terrified. I flew home for Christmas and cried my eyes out. Then flew back to Portland and cried more.
Of course things did eventually get better. I met people. I got involved in some activities, slowly. I saved up money and figured out where I liked to hang out. After a year I had a wild instinct to move to Missoula, Montana and then a sober voice said – hm, and start this whole process over again? You’re just getting to like Portland. So I stayed. And now I’ve been here ten years.
When I meet other people who have just moved here, I am jealous of the ones who hit the ground running, who come with a game plan and some resources. And when I meet the ones like me I think, oh honey, why are you making it harder on yourself. But how could you know until you’ve done it? I wouldn’t listen to any advice when I was 22 anyway. And I’m not so different now – I still like to learn things the hard way, I still quietly and stubbornly believe in following my gut instinct even when everyone around me thinks it’s stupid. I guess you always look back and wish you could do things over with the knowledge you now have. As the great Rod Stewart says: I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger.
Did you know that song is called Ooh La La? I didn’t. Here, maybe it will cheer you up:
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know if I would come back. I didn’t know what I wanted to do other than write and find people like me. I wanted to find my generation’s equivalent of Greenwich Village in the 30s. I wanted to find where things were going on, which was most certainly not in Lansing, Michigan. So my best friend and I set off on a road trip. Classic. We had maps and sleeping bags and a tent and a car, and we’d saved up enough money to be on the road for at least two months before we’d need to find a place to live and a job. It seemed like a good plan. My parents and sister waved goodbye from the driveway, and Aryn and I set off on our vision quest.
It was, not surprisingly, hard. Not romantic roll up your sleeves hard, but chilly, self-doubting, running out of money and what the fuck am I doing hard. We were lonely and lost (we had maps but our inner compasses were spinning) and we quickly ran out of things to talk about. We had adventures, yes – but not the kind of adventures that lead to immediate self-knowledge. Or any knowledge at all, other than ‘driving through the Rocky Mountains during a whiteout is fucking terrifying,’ or ‘the entire state of New Mexico is haunted.’ I thought I would have dreams, grand dreams that would reveal my mission to me – but instead I kept dreaming about high school friends I’d lost touch with (dreams, by the way, that were trying to tell me something, just not what I was looking for – but that is a topic for another day).
We got to Portland after 2½ months, and stayed with my aunt and uncle in Yamhill for three weeks while we looked for jobs and an apartment (and thank god for them, because I don’t know what I would have done without their kindness & love). I got hired as a temp and spent the last of my money on work clothes (hiking boots and dirty jeans were not going to cut it) and an apartment in southeast Portland. Then we had to wait two months before we had enough money to buy lamps and furniture. It was December, dark and rainy. We didn’t know anyone in Portland and we couldn’t afford to go out and do anything so we would sit in our plain, carpeted apartment decorated with one Chinese medicine poster we’d bought at Saturday Market, drinking tea and listening to the radio. In the dark. Because we couldn't afford a lamp. During the day sometimes we’d go to a coffee shop and sit and listen to people and try to figure out how to meet them (because on top of everything else we were both introverts and very sensitive people).
For the first time in my life, I was totally on my own. And though I would do it over again, I don’t recommend it. It was terrible. I spent at least six months lonely and poor and cut off from the world and terrified. I flew home for Christmas and cried my eyes out. Then flew back to Portland and cried more.
Of course things did eventually get better. I met people. I got involved in some activities, slowly. I saved up money and figured out where I liked to hang out. After a year I had a wild instinct to move to Missoula, Montana and then a sober voice said – hm, and start this whole process over again? You’re just getting to like Portland. So I stayed. And now I’ve been here ten years.
When I meet other people who have just moved here, I am jealous of the ones who hit the ground running, who come with a game plan and some resources. And when I meet the ones like me I think, oh honey, why are you making it harder on yourself. But how could you know until you’ve done it? I wouldn’t listen to any advice when I was 22 anyway. And I’m not so different now – I still like to learn things the hard way, I still quietly and stubbornly believe in following my gut instinct even when everyone around me thinks it’s stupid. I guess you always look back and wish you could do things over with the knowledge you now have. As the great Rod Stewart says: I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger.
Did you know that song is called Ooh La La? I didn’t. Here, maybe it will cheer you up:
Saturday, October 17, 2009
RANT #1: Taylor Swift
Hello. I would like to talk today about one of my biggest pet peeves: Taylor Swift. (Not to be confused with my other peeve: naming a human being Taylor.)
If you listen to country radio or read Perez Hilton, you know who Taylor Swift is. If you are my Dad, you don’t. For those of you who are my Dad, let me lay it out for you: Taylor Swift is a nineteen-year-old singer who has made a splash on the country charts and currently tours (I swear to god, I saw this with my own eyes) with an entourage of something like FORTY-SEVEN semi-trucks with her face splashed gigantically across them. But underneath all that, she’s just a little girl with a big smile, a big dream and long shiny hair. And long shiny legs and long shiny eyelashes and a fair-to-middling voice. (See: Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff and the original Teen Exploitation Queen herself, Ms. Britney Spears).
As in previous models, what drives me crazy is not Taylor Swift herself but the Taylor Swift Machine. The Machine markets Taylor Swift according to the accepted formula: one part pretty little virgin songstress, one part sexy rocker hair, one part business woman.
I wish I could find the photo of Taylor getting doused by a waterfall onstage.
Here are some quotes from articles about Ms. Swift:
The world's biggest new pop star is a little bit country, a little bit rock & roll, and all control freak. What's behind her drive for success?
"While other girls were drawing their wedding dress, I was drawing stage dimensions," says Swift, whose 55-city tour turns her junior-high fantasies into reality: "We have giant turrets that raise during 'Love Story,' and elaborate costumes," she says.
As it turns out, Swift is a rare blend of goofy teenager and polished saleswoman, which has let her tap into a huge market of country-loving teens.
See what I mean? They love in profiles like this to take two opposite traits and smack them up against each other. Case in point: Taylor Swift loves pink and purple but she is also a tooooootal control freak, guys. Whoa, come again? CAN SHE BE BOTH OF THESE THINGS? A professional, and yet a little girl? I too have two opposite traits contained within my dainty form, and thus I love her.
Our society loves that shit. I admit, part of me is jealous because I would love to be able to rig up a live waterfall in my own performances. Goddamit! How come I can’t end my show with a fucking WATERFALL cascading over my nubile flesh? That’s what I get for going into weird performance art instead of hot country.
Even in the circles I move in, though, many people want to see you this way as a solo artist, to see a contradiction embodied. They want you to be a high art savant crossed with a tough as nails, take no prisoners, clickety-clack red nails and heels businesswoman. They want you to be Bjork but inside be Sigourney Weaver from Working Girl. Pretty pink on the outside, blue steel on the inside. Maybe they just know that you have to be both to succeed.
But back to Taylor Swift. I worry about her. Like other incarnations, she was plucked from obscurity not because of her songs or her voice but because there is something about her that people respond to, and basing a career off charisma and charm and likeability (not to mention virginity)? We all know where that’s headed.
But if we all know where it’s headed, why are we so drawn in? Why are we ever-hungry for more teen queen victims? Why is there always such an appetite for the newest sexy little moppet? It can’t all be from preteen girls, can it?
Whatever, my rant is losing fire. It just makes me tired. Maybe she’ll make it out okay. Maybe her sharp as nails business acumen will save her a la Madonna or Shania Twain.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
New York City!
Am I the only person who still, when I see or hear the phrase NEW YORK CITY, thinks of the Pace salsa commercial where two cowboys incredulously read aloud the birthplace of an inferior brand of salsa? Sad, but true. I guess that was a successful ad.
Anyway, onto the topic at hand: my tumultuous relationship with New York City. I know I am not alone in this. But here is my perception, in Portland anyway: you are supposed to say, oh man I just LOVE New York, I go there as much as I can. You are allowed to shake your head ruefully or express your frustration or burned out-ness in relation to a recent trip to New York, or if you are from there originally you can say how much you prefer the leafy environs of Portland. But you are not supposed to say that you are freaked out and overwhelmed by New York. That is bad form. That is for rubes from the midwest – oh my stars, all the people, and the noise, and the CRIME! It’s possible that this is all a projection of my paranoid girl-from-the-midwest-trying-to-prove-herself mind… but my sense is that when I am honest about my last trip to New York people kind of look away and change the subject. Like… “huh, that’s weird. Hm. Well did you eat some good food though?”
And luckily I did eat some incredible food. But the fact remains, my last trip to New York (about a month ago) was difficult. Like, for the first five days I hid in the apartment where I was crashing and trembled with fear at the thought of setting foot anywhere by myself.
I think it came down to several key factors that converged to overwhelm me:
1. Fear of navigating the subway, of getting irrevokably lost.
2. Fear of strangers. It’s embarrassing to admit this.
3. Performance anxiety. I was performing my show. This is a topic for another day.
4. Noise and lack of quiet space.
5. Money. New York is fucking expensive.
So, all together, these factors = TOTALLY FREAKED OUT IN NEW YORK CITY.
I did eventually figure out how to handle these various stressors, and next time when I go, I think I’ll be better prepared. Here are some things that helped me get over my freaked-out-ness:
1. After studying a map, in a low stress (ie, not about to get on the subway) situation, and setting a simple journey for myself that I could successfully complete, it no longer felt like the entire city was waiting to gobble me up.
2. It’s a New York cliché, but after two weeks I found myself shutting people out, not making eye contact with everyone. It helped me focus on the people I wanted to focus on, and not take it personally when other people did this to me.
3. I still haven’t figured out what to do about the performance anxiety thing – I’ll let you know when I do.
4. I realized that parks and little oases are there for a good reason: to keep you sane. Also: Brighton Beach! Walking along the beach felt like magic.
5. I tried to buy groceries and not eat out every meal. I didn’t really succeed in this but maybe next time I will.
So, yeah. New York. Tough town, great salsa.
Anyway, onto the topic at hand: my tumultuous relationship with New York City. I know I am not alone in this. But here is my perception, in Portland anyway: you are supposed to say, oh man I just LOVE New York, I go there as much as I can. You are allowed to shake your head ruefully or express your frustration or burned out-ness in relation to a recent trip to New York, or if you are from there originally you can say how much you prefer the leafy environs of Portland. But you are not supposed to say that you are freaked out and overwhelmed by New York. That is bad form. That is for rubes from the midwest – oh my stars, all the people, and the noise, and the CRIME! It’s possible that this is all a projection of my paranoid girl-from-the-midwest-trying-to-prove-herself mind… but my sense is that when I am honest about my last trip to New York people kind of look away and change the subject. Like… “huh, that’s weird. Hm. Well did you eat some good food though?”
And luckily I did eat some incredible food. But the fact remains, my last trip to New York (about a month ago) was difficult. Like, for the first five days I hid in the apartment where I was crashing and trembled with fear at the thought of setting foot anywhere by myself.
I think it came down to several key factors that converged to overwhelm me:
1. Fear of navigating the subway, of getting irrevokably lost.
2. Fear of strangers. It’s embarrassing to admit this.
3. Performance anxiety. I was performing my show. This is a topic for another day.
4. Noise and lack of quiet space.
5. Money. New York is fucking expensive.
So, all together, these factors = TOTALLY FREAKED OUT IN NEW YORK CITY.
I did eventually figure out how to handle these various stressors, and next time when I go, I think I’ll be better prepared. Here are some things that helped me get over my freaked-out-ness:
1. After studying a map, in a low stress (ie, not about to get on the subway) situation, and setting a simple journey for myself that I could successfully complete, it no longer felt like the entire city was waiting to gobble me up.
2. It’s a New York cliché, but after two weeks I found myself shutting people out, not making eye contact with everyone. It helped me focus on the people I wanted to focus on, and not take it personally when other people did this to me.
3. I still haven’t figured out what to do about the performance anxiety thing – I’ll let you know when I do.
4. I realized that parks and little oases are there for a good reason: to keep you sane. Also: Brighton Beach! Walking along the beach felt like magic.
5. I tried to buy groceries and not eat out every meal. I didn’t really succeed in this but maybe next time I will.
So, yeah. New York. Tough town, great salsa.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
P-town
I am originally from Lansing, Michigan but for the last ten years I have lived in Portland, Oregon.
Things I love about Portland: the neighborhoods, the fresh air and natural beauty, the mix of can-do optimism and wide-eyed inspiration, people I meet who are working on crazy creative projects and know more than I do about gardening or zoning laws or trippy bands or how to make a car out of used tires.
Things that drive me crazy about Portland: how alike we are in age and clothing and background, how small and predictable and incestuous the “arts scene” can be (though I know this is not unique to Portland), how freaking nice everyone and everything is. I find myself craving some grit and noise and grease and waste. I deal with these cravings by traveling a lot and making secret late night trips to Taco Bell. Please do not tell my friends.
Things I love about Portland: the neighborhoods, the fresh air and natural beauty, the mix of can-do optimism and wide-eyed inspiration, people I meet who are working on crazy creative projects and know more than I do about gardening or zoning laws or trippy bands or how to make a car out of used tires.
Things that drive me crazy about Portland: how alike we are in age and clothing and background, how small and predictable and incestuous the “arts scene” can be (though I know this is not unique to Portland), how freaking nice everyone and everything is. I find myself craving some grit and noise and grease and waste. I deal with these cravings by traveling a lot and making secret late night trips to Taco Bell. Please do not tell my friends.
My "mission statement"
Actually I have this thing where as soon as I write a "mission statement" I divebomb it. It just feels so self help-y and/or corporate and/or self aggrandizing. But I feel like I should communicate with clarity and focus, and so a "mission statement" (I can't even write it without quotes!) it is.
+ I am and always have been a Very Sensitive Person. There are good and bad things that come with being a Very Sensitive Person. Good things: I can get on other people's wavelength easily, I can tell pretty quickly when someone is bad news, I live in a wondrous fairyland of imagination and possibility. Bad things: I cry every other day, and if someone criticizes my hairstyle I take it to heart, wondering if there is something wrong with my sense of style and my character and my humanity. So. I'll be talking a lot about holding onto balance and perspective as a SENSITIVE PERSON IN A COLD HARD WORLD. And I'll try to do this without being too earnest and annoying and self-obsessed.
+ I am interested in contradictions. I want to dig them up, spread them out on a blanket and see what they’re made of. And then maybe place them gently back into the earth to see what grows. And hope that what grows is not a 600-pound turnip/gorilla cause maaaaan I do not want to mess with a turnip/gorilla, I learned that the hard way.
+ I am a performance artist which provides a particular challenge for the sensitive person -- I clearly crave connection with others in the heightened world of live performance, and yet this world provides heightened blows and knockdowns. So I'll be exploring that as well.
+ I'll also throw out random manifestoes, rants and inspirations as I see fit.
+ I am and always have been a Very Sensitive Person. There are good and bad things that come with being a Very Sensitive Person. Good things: I can get on other people's wavelength easily, I can tell pretty quickly when someone is bad news, I live in a wondrous fairyland of imagination and possibility. Bad things: I cry every other day, and if someone criticizes my hairstyle I take it to heart, wondering if there is something wrong with my sense of style and my character and my humanity. So. I'll be talking a lot about holding onto balance and perspective as a SENSITIVE PERSON IN A COLD HARD WORLD. And I'll try to do this without being too earnest and annoying and self-obsessed.
+ I am interested in contradictions. I want to dig them up, spread them out on a blanket and see what they’re made of. And then maybe place them gently back into the earth to see what grows. And hope that what grows is not a 600-pound turnip/gorilla cause maaaaan I do not want to mess with a turnip/gorilla, I learned that the hard way.
+ I am a performance artist which provides a particular challenge for the sensitive person -- I clearly crave connection with others in the heightened world of live performance, and yet this world provides heightened blows and knockdowns. So I'll be exploring that as well.
+ I'll also throw out random manifestoes, rants and inspirations as I see fit.
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