Astro disappeared a couple of nights ago. We don't have high hopes. Too many wild beasts in them thar Vermont woods and she is a dainty wee thing. It hurts that she is gone but we do have the comfort of knowing that whoever or whatever was stupid enough to try to take her down, regretted it immediately. It was like trying to grab an adorable looking Cujo. There are a lot of species-unspecific females like her, including myself. Sometimes I wonder if it is who we really are if we weren't told that we needed men to protect us.
Many years ago when I was little, being a princess was THE primo career goal and the very best type of princess was one who was rescued by a man. It was their job to protect us and I hoped to find one capable of fulfilling the job description, preferably with a horse.
Unfortunately (or fortunately), I spend my early adulthood living mostly alone in some of New York City's not yet desirable neighborhoods where white knights were usually dating women in better income brackets. The men in my world were usually too busy with gigs or hiding from landlords. It was not safe. I accepted that and learned how to think and watch and listen whenever I walked alone. In 17 years I wasn't harmed and I am positive that it was from doing everything in my power to not let the bad guys get near enough to touch me. That and stupid luck. And being 100% confident that I would tear out their eyes if they caught me.
The other night my friend did not protect a woman who was being harassed by a man. Or, at least that is how he felt later on in a pique of failure. Really, the woman wisely chose not to confront the crazy person who was bothering her and my friend probably did the instinctively intelligent move to not antagonize a lunatic. The society that he was reared in ingrained the message, "to be a man is to fight."
Another male friend of mine is a hot head. In the right mood, he will confront anyone who looks funny at him. I like him but he is an asshole. I prefer to not walk down the street with him . In the case with the aforementioned friend, he would have escalated the situation and may have gotten someone hurt. He is such a "man" that his ego goes straight to testosterone and passes the "think" part. And it never occurs to him that a woman might be able to handle the situation on her own and doesn't want his help.
Oh sure, if someone takes it upon themselves to start beating on me because I am smaller, please do step in, larger person who may be a man. The intellectualizing part of the show has left the tent. But please know that I got some shots in first and was glad I had given it my best to not be in this situation. Because, like Astro, I know when I am beaten but you aren't taking my vulnerability with you. I don't think a person is less of a man if he takes the time to choose when to confront and avoid it. In fact, I respect it because, if I am standing next to you, I have a better chance of surviving if you do.
*One week after her disappearance, Astro knocked on the door and came in for a bite and a nap without a scratch on her.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
How To Tell If You Have A Hex Upon You
In 1678 my Great many time over Grandfather John Stebbins was allegedly murdered by witchcraft in Northampton, MA. That or a log rolled on him randomly. One of them. Either way, someone must have been angry enough at him to make them think he got the stink-eye.
We know that the Puritans were a little zealous on the superstition front. It was probably something simple like an actual homicide. I am wondering what the other circumstances around the "witchcraft incident" that lead to this interpretation of his demise and, if I were of the same frame of mind in this day and age, would I come to similar kind of conclusions in my life now. For instance, there was this week and a half in June......
In mid-June a couple whom I knew growing up exploded.* That is to say, their home blew up with them in it, blowing their house and,well, them across the banks of the Delaware River. I wasn't particularly close to them but their death was so sudden and horrible that for a quick moment I just didn't know how to react. It wasn't in my wheelhouse of bad things. And this paved the way for the rest of June. In Puritan curse credo, this would be the ominous warning not having that much to do with you, just enough to make you feel disturbed.
We were in the middle of packing up our apartment. I knew it wasn't going to be simple but, holy monkey in a hand basket, Batman....we had soooo much stuff. And our new apartment was tiny compared to the old space. Purgatory is paved with moving boxes. No matter how much I packed, there was more. And there was a continual presence of contractors in our space readying it for future tenants. No privacy while I yelled at our belongings that seemed to multiply themselves. Like they were cursed.
The husband was working three jobs. Two in one university and another 110 miles away at a blueberry farm where he was starting up a winery. Even if Jay was more available, he had been very ill, a bronchial thing that made him sound like Brenda Vacarro in a roomful of smog. He packed his office up but there wasn't a whole lot of time for much else while he was giving final exams and when he moved, he hacked away like his lungs had rocks in them. Cooties....or witchcraft?
About this time my hair started breaking off. It had gone through phases but now it was snapping off at the part where the color started in earnest. The top back of my head began to look like a poorly mowed lawn. It ain't the pox or warts but still hex-y, not sexy**.
My daughter was a 14 year old moving from the only home she knew since she was six. She is a good kid, helping as much as she could but she was also enveloped in the emotional dysplasia blues. There is no way I could tell her to cheer the fuck up given the circumstances. The onset of gloom was continuous and grating. And every person who ever perused the horror section of Netflix knows that there is always a brooding teenager when the evil eye is upon a home.
We were waiting on payment for the husband's summer position, depending on one large check. In the meantime, huge bills were piling up. Fortunately, the circus guild money guy producer (yes, circus) agreed to meet me with a check for a show I was performing in once a month. On the way to the designated central location, I noticed the brakes on our Yaris weren't engaging properly. By the time I got to Somerville, they were barely working at all. I coasted in and called the husband. He came down and followed me back to the MA apartment while I drove as slow as you possibly could without getting rear ended by one of those infamous testy Boston drivers. Three hundred dollars later, I was mobile. So we have near-ish death experience by bad brakes (1970's murder program plot line, anyone?) AND loss of much needed money. Extra curse-y with a side of Murder She Wrote.
We rented a moving truck and spent the morning loading it. I had to move-us interruptus to go to a very necessary rehearsal. My writing partner and I had revamped the circus show script and it was the only time that the director was available to meet before the show that was going back up in 4 more days. After I got home, we continued to fill it up until we couldn't function any more, woke up the next day, loaded it more and then drove off to VT. We started unloading it and then the husband fell off the moving truck and broke his foot.You heard me. Broke his foot. If that don't smell of demons pushing people, I don't know what does.
The moving truck was positively pregnant with large heavy old furniture and I was alone with it. I started thinking of ways pieces could be dismantled so that I could do it by myself. I went to the only two people whom I knew well in the Pioneer Valley/Southern VT area and was rescued by Scott (of Jennifer and Scott) at 10 pm, removing the stuff that scared me most. And the next morning when I was again scheming on how the hell I was going to do this again more, Scott texted me and told me he had taken the day off and was coming back. It's things like that that prevented me from running a muck across Interstate 91. One could say we were rescued by incredible selfless kindness....or one could say that I pulled Scott into the curse with me. Mercy, I didn't think two humans could sweat that much.
We had to keep the moving van an extra day, costing us more. We also had to cancel a team building event that Jay and I were both booked on to make desperately needed money. The husband's summer position was done and we had to wait for the end of the summer for the elusive check. The money is bleeeeding! Curses love money loss!
We did do a second scheduled event the day after that in Cape Cod, driving from VT instead of the sleeping on air mattresses in MA as planned. He was in a lot of pain but got through it. He took the Pontiac with cruise control, driving with his big ole air cast back to VT. I pulled into our soon to be former MA town and felt the brakes of the aforementioned Yaris starting to lose their power again. DAH-DAH-DUHHH! (That's a musical sting).
I drove the car straight to the garage down the street from our house where it had just been. I explained that I needed the car inspected in order to get the registration that was due as well as rectifying the insidious brake issue. I walked home, continued to finish the last of the stuff in the apartment and did battle with the concept of where the hell do you throw this stuff off with only three garbage cans for two apartments plus recycling. I had run to the dump twice already and donated belongings ruthlessly. It was endless. Again, magicked reproducing belongings.
In the meantime, the husband has been informed that our large lump sum check is going to be taxed as if single payment is the same as a bi-weekly paycheck for an annual salary, putting us in a tax bracket that I only dream of visiting. We were going to lose another 600 dollars because "that is just the way the school does it." His payment for the summer was going to cover the Amex bill and rent and that was just about all. This is when I really did start wondering if someone had busted out a Ouiji board to call the dogs from hell out on us. Cue the Why Me, Gods.
When I return to the garage the next morning, the car was inspected but the brakes, due to an error in communication from within, were not examined. I try to explain that I had to be at pre-show tech rehearsal followed by two performances and was supposed to drive to VT after the show. A stressed out looking mechanic took a look at the brakes. He showed me even more damaged brake parts. It was going to cost about another 300 dollars. This is when I sat on the floor next to my car and began weeping. Poor mechanic. Sucked into my potential curse drama.
The car would have to stay at the garage. We would have to find some money somewhere. The trains stopped running 5 minutes after I get off the stage. I had no car, no money, no sleep, no way home, no idea of where anything in my life was with the exception of my family and my costume (which I was terrified of losing so kept with me) and the massive mound of garbage in my former apartment. I was physically and mentally beaten from multiple layered potential curse effects.
The tech rehearsal was a disaster (for me) due to my inability to complete a sentence. The shows weren't as bad as the rehearsals but that ain't saying much on my part. I dropped lines. I had no energy. My timing and focus weren't just off, they were in a whole other town. And if you were to put the whammy on me, this is where you get me good. Besides my family, my performer's ego is the belly of the beast. Thwupt (that's an arrow flying)....right into my soul. See? Puritan me would have been swarming the neighborhood looking for someone to hang (pardon the pun) it on. Ruination! Find Satan's minion!***
But in the end, the curse rarely stays a curse if you let it ride out. The husband drove back on his broken foot and picked me up after the show. I met him somewhere. I can't remember. It is lost in the blur. The car did get fixed the next day. My mother-in-law bailed us out and the mechanic didn't charge us for labor because they had missed it the first time (and because I am an uncomfortably messy cry-er). Months later I am still unpacking but at least I know where my underwear is and the air quality is better. Our finances will get better because we did move. I finished up the last show in this run in August knowing all night that it was really be my last because the June one was so unforgivable. And I did what I would have anyway, my best. I went out with a bang, rose to the occasion, glad that I can't remember the show that I failed because there is the perk in exhaustion and mild brain damage.
So I wonder if sometimes a hex is just the fulfillment of a person's inability to find the silver lining in something? After all, my little story up there is rife with helping hands and kindness. It's harder to find it with Grandpa Stebbins what with him being under a log and all, but still.....in his religion, he is in heaven right now. And he doesn't have to worry about witches any more. So was it a hex or was it just the quick bus to the Pearly Gates?
*This is by no means meant to make light of an incredibly tragic event that took the lives of two very lovely people who were nothing but kind to me the 35 or so years that I have known them. It is merely the uh-oh moment when things started to unravel.
**Self-indulgent humor to make myself laugh
***And I did get fired from the circus for bad acting. Which is awful because normally I am a really good character actor but great because I find saying that sentence a little hilarious.
We know that the Puritans were a little zealous on the superstition front. It was probably something simple like an actual homicide. I am wondering what the other circumstances around the "witchcraft incident" that lead to this interpretation of his demise and, if I were of the same frame of mind in this day and age, would I come to similar kind of conclusions in my life now. For instance, there was this week and a half in June......
In mid-June a couple whom I knew growing up exploded.* That is to say, their home blew up with them in it, blowing their house and,well, them across the banks of the Delaware River. I wasn't particularly close to them but their death was so sudden and horrible that for a quick moment I just didn't know how to react. It wasn't in my wheelhouse of bad things. And this paved the way for the rest of June. In Puritan curse credo, this would be the ominous warning not having that much to do with you, just enough to make you feel disturbed.
We were in the middle of packing up our apartment. I knew it wasn't going to be simple but, holy monkey in a hand basket, Batman....we had soooo much stuff. And our new apartment was tiny compared to the old space. Purgatory is paved with moving boxes. No matter how much I packed, there was more. And there was a continual presence of contractors in our space readying it for future tenants. No privacy while I yelled at our belongings that seemed to multiply themselves. Like they were cursed.
The husband was working three jobs. Two in one university and another 110 miles away at a blueberry farm where he was starting up a winery. Even if Jay was more available, he had been very ill, a bronchial thing that made him sound like Brenda Vacarro in a roomful of smog. He packed his office up but there wasn't a whole lot of time for much else while he was giving final exams and when he moved, he hacked away like his lungs had rocks in them. Cooties....or witchcraft?
About this time my hair started breaking off. It had gone through phases but now it was snapping off at the part where the color started in earnest. The top back of my head began to look like a poorly mowed lawn. It ain't the pox or warts but still hex-y, not sexy**.
My daughter was a 14 year old moving from the only home she knew since she was six. She is a good kid, helping as much as she could but she was also enveloped in the emotional dysplasia blues. There is no way I could tell her to cheer the fuck up given the circumstances. The onset of gloom was continuous and grating. And every person who ever perused the horror section of Netflix knows that there is always a brooding teenager when the evil eye is upon a home.
We were waiting on payment for the husband's summer position, depending on one large check. In the meantime, huge bills were piling up. Fortunately, the circus guild money guy producer (yes, circus) agreed to meet me with a check for a show I was performing in once a month. On the way to the designated central location, I noticed the brakes on our Yaris weren't engaging properly. By the time I got to Somerville, they were barely working at all. I coasted in and called the husband. He came down and followed me back to the MA apartment while I drove as slow as you possibly could without getting rear ended by one of those infamous testy Boston drivers. Three hundred dollars later, I was mobile. So we have near-ish death experience by bad brakes (1970's murder program plot line, anyone?) AND loss of much needed money. Extra curse-y with a side of Murder She Wrote.
We rented a moving truck and spent the morning loading it. I had to move-us interruptus to go to a very necessary rehearsal. My writing partner and I had revamped the circus show script and it was the only time that the director was available to meet before the show that was going back up in 4 more days. After I got home, we continued to fill it up until we couldn't function any more, woke up the next day, loaded it more and then drove off to VT. We started unloading it and then the husband fell off the moving truck and broke his foot.You heard me. Broke his foot. If that don't smell of demons pushing people, I don't know what does.
The moving truck was positively pregnant with large heavy old furniture and I was alone with it. I started thinking of ways pieces could be dismantled so that I could do it by myself. I went to the only two people whom I knew well in the Pioneer Valley/Southern VT area and was rescued by Scott (of Jennifer and Scott) at 10 pm, removing the stuff that scared me most. And the next morning when I was again scheming on how the hell I was going to do this again more, Scott texted me and told me he had taken the day off and was coming back. It's things like that that prevented me from running a muck across Interstate 91. One could say we were rescued by incredible selfless kindness....or one could say that I pulled Scott into the curse with me. Mercy, I didn't think two humans could sweat that much.
We had to keep the moving van an extra day, costing us more. We also had to cancel a team building event that Jay and I were both booked on to make desperately needed money. The husband's summer position was done and we had to wait for the end of the summer for the elusive check. The money is bleeeeding! Curses love money loss!
We did do a second scheduled event the day after that in Cape Cod, driving from VT instead of the sleeping on air mattresses in MA as planned. He was in a lot of pain but got through it. He took the Pontiac with cruise control, driving with his big ole air cast back to VT. I pulled into our soon to be former MA town and felt the brakes of the aforementioned Yaris starting to lose their power again. DAH-DAH-DUHHH! (That's a musical sting).
I drove the car straight to the garage down the street from our house where it had just been. I explained that I needed the car inspected in order to get the registration that was due as well as rectifying the insidious brake issue. I walked home, continued to finish the last of the stuff in the apartment and did battle with the concept of where the hell do you throw this stuff off with only three garbage cans for two apartments plus recycling. I had run to the dump twice already and donated belongings ruthlessly. It was endless. Again, magicked reproducing belongings.
In the meantime, the husband has been informed that our large lump sum check is going to be taxed as if single payment is the same as a bi-weekly paycheck for an annual salary, putting us in a tax bracket that I only dream of visiting. We were going to lose another 600 dollars because "that is just the way the school does it." His payment for the summer was going to cover the Amex bill and rent and that was just about all. This is when I really did start wondering if someone had busted out a Ouiji board to call the dogs from hell out on us. Cue the Why Me, Gods.
When I return to the garage the next morning, the car was inspected but the brakes, due to an error in communication from within, were not examined. I try to explain that I had to be at pre-show tech rehearsal followed by two performances and was supposed to drive to VT after the show. A stressed out looking mechanic took a look at the brakes. He showed me even more damaged brake parts. It was going to cost about another 300 dollars. This is when I sat on the floor next to my car and began weeping. Poor mechanic. Sucked into my potential curse drama.
The car would have to stay at the garage. We would have to find some money somewhere. The trains stopped running 5 minutes after I get off the stage. I had no car, no money, no sleep, no way home, no idea of where anything in my life was with the exception of my family and my costume (which I was terrified of losing so kept with me) and the massive mound of garbage in my former apartment. I was physically and mentally beaten from multiple layered potential curse effects.
The tech rehearsal was a disaster (for me) due to my inability to complete a sentence. The shows weren't as bad as the rehearsals but that ain't saying much on my part. I dropped lines. I had no energy. My timing and focus weren't just off, they were in a whole other town. And if you were to put the whammy on me, this is where you get me good. Besides my family, my performer's ego is the belly of the beast. Thwupt (that's an arrow flying)....right into my soul. See? Puritan me would have been swarming the neighborhood looking for someone to hang (pardon the pun) it on. Ruination! Find Satan's minion!***
But in the end, the curse rarely stays a curse if you let it ride out. The husband drove back on his broken foot and picked me up after the show. I met him somewhere. I can't remember. It is lost in the blur. The car did get fixed the next day. My mother-in-law bailed us out and the mechanic didn't charge us for labor because they had missed it the first time (and because I am an uncomfortably messy cry-er). Months later I am still unpacking but at least I know where my underwear is and the air quality is better. Our finances will get better because we did move. I finished up the last show in this run in August knowing all night that it was really be my last because the June one was so unforgivable. And I did what I would have anyway, my best. I went out with a bang, rose to the occasion, glad that I can't remember the show that I failed because there is the perk in exhaustion and mild brain damage.
So I wonder if sometimes a hex is just the fulfillment of a person's inability to find the silver lining in something? After all, my little story up there is rife with helping hands and kindness. It's harder to find it with Grandpa Stebbins what with him being under a log and all, but still.....in his religion, he is in heaven right now. And he doesn't have to worry about witches any more. So was it a hex or was it just the quick bus to the Pearly Gates?
*This is by no means meant to make light of an incredibly tragic event that took the lives of two very lovely people who were nothing but kind to me the 35 or so years that I have known them. It is merely the uh-oh moment when things started to unravel.
**Self-indulgent humor to make myself laugh
***And I did get fired from the circus for bad acting. Which is awful because normally I am a really good character actor but great because I find saying that sentence a little hilarious.
Monday, April 14, 2014
On Teaching Your 6 Year Old Not To Be A Thug
These are some of the things that the little red headed girl did to my daughter when they were 6 under the stipulation that if orders weren't followed she would no longer be her friend:
- Made daughter take another girl's name off a list of friends that the daughter had made. By Tuesday. Or else.
- Told daughter that she was having a birthday party and she was going to invite everyone else but daughter.
- Told daughter that if she didn't do as she was told, she would go to her house and hurt daughter's parents.
- Made daughter eat a leaf.
These all took place during an after school program under the guise of two sweet young innocents playing together peacefully. I am sure there were many other incidents. Most, including the leaf eating and family threat, just came to light last week now with the daughter almost 14 years old.
I knew about the birthday party and the friendship list, complaining to some people at the school that my daughter was being bullied. The memory is a little cloudy but I think they sort of shrugged it off. After all, my daughter tended to be weepy and the little red headed girl looked so damned sweet.
I wish I had known about those last two incidents. Leaf eating and megalomania are show stoppers. We didn't contact the little red headed girl's parents because our daughter begged us not to do it. But this would have torn it.
The little red headed girl is now a tall willowy young lady traveling in a small pack of popular girls through the hallways of middle school. I hear that she has developed a subtle Southern California accent as a suburban Massachusetts teen is wont to do. The daughter says she isn't very nice but doesn't really bother the daughter any more, going with the safer pretending she doesn't exist route instead.
I always wondered what the hell her parents were teaching this kid. You hear about bad seeds that spring from their own psychotic foundation but I ain't buying it this time. This is a kid who got away with shit by using her appearance. A child that wanted power. A person who did not care if she hurt someone else and did it intentionally and often. I can honestly say that there is no way in hell my daughter would be this person.
My daughter is an emotional creature. Her feelings are hurt easily. She gets angry silently. She has trust issues. Some of this is due to circumstances in her past that have been less then perfect. Some of it is because she is wired to be emotional. And some of it is because some asshole made her eat a leaf.
But my daughter is a good person who cares about other people. She is grateful when she has a friend and would never abuse them. She is beautiful and willowy too. My daughter knows that no matter how bad she feels about herself, her friends don't come with stipulations. She is good enough for them the way she is. She wasn't taught that you had to win them at all costs and to not wonder if they really liked her for her. No bribes. No bullying. Just her. And I wonder if the little red headed girl will ever know that too.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Foolish Behavior But At Least My Feet Match Now
Last June I rolled off of my 6 inch gold stilletos and fell down the last couple of stairs on the mezzanine level of the Oberon theatre while chasing a nerd. I did not drop the microphone but I did punch the floor with my free hand because I couldn't scream. The audience at the back of the bar helped me up. I hopped over to my hosting/writing partner aka the nerd on the other side of the performance space and discussed the damage. It was really bad but since the sequence of the next thirty minutes was driven by our interactions, we proceeded to transport my busted up nether parts from mark to mark by crawling, hopping and leaning.
At first I was a little tickled that most people didn't know oh how I suffered for my "craft". I spent the next couple of days martyring myself, showing selfies of my swollen foot and sighing "It's a buck!" I forced myself out to contend with other work when I should have stayed at home, put ice on it and not moved.
Well. That was stupid.
The swelling of the foot went down after a couple of weeks but my foot hurt constantly. Then my hip joints. And finally my knees. For a really really long time. I couldn't exercise. Walking up stairs always hurt. Sitting in the car for a long drive was super uncomfortable. It was dawning on me that this could be a permanent injury.
In 1990, I broke my left foot rolling off of my shoe and down my East 11th Street apartment stairs, running off to a bar because I had just gotten out of the hospital and was free. It literally snapped. Three weeks later, being a young woman living on her own and, in my eyes, a sitting duck to the nefarious types loitering the streets at night when I hopped home from comedy clubs on one foot, I took a wrench and pried the cast from my leg. The foot still has a crooked point where the bone is askew. Until last June, I would always favor my right leg because of it.
The difference between the two injuries is, well, 23 years. I got away with it when I was 25. Not so much this time.
About two weeks ago, 8 months after I fell, my knees quit hurting. Yesterday I walked 7 miles. It hurt a little but I guess it would have anyway. Its a freakin' spring miracle. The damage from my sedentary life that began with that injury is nothing like I have ever experienced. I used to bounce back. This time my body atrophied and gained weight almost immediately.
You would think I could get away with just letting it all go. I'm almost 50. Isn't this the part when all of those old lady rules about aging with dignity and having a lot of tea parties and not wearing skirts above your knee start kicking in? No such luck. Our next show goes back up again on May 23rd. I will be running in (lower) heels, dancing and moving constantly. It is almost a certainty that if I do not take care of myself, I will injure myself before that run is out.
There is a part of me that is wired by my need to perform physical comedy. Thank God for that because it hurts so much now to do it. I am no longer indestructible. It takes energy I never needed to have before. Yes, I think being healthy is good, but, honestly, not falling off the mezzanine again is a much larger motivator.
So next time I injure myself.....and there will be a next time because there always is.....I put whatever part it is that I busted up on ice and stop till it heals. I don't intend on acting like I am almost 50 but I can't forget the actuality that I am.
At first I was a little tickled that most people didn't know oh how I suffered for my "craft". I spent the next couple of days martyring myself, showing selfies of my swollen foot and sighing "It's a buck!" I forced myself out to contend with other work when I should have stayed at home, put ice on it and not moved.
Well. That was stupid.
The swelling of the foot went down after a couple of weeks but my foot hurt constantly. Then my hip joints. And finally my knees. For a really really long time. I couldn't exercise. Walking up stairs always hurt. Sitting in the car for a long drive was super uncomfortable. It was dawning on me that this could be a permanent injury.
In 1990, I broke my left foot rolling off of my shoe and down my East 11th Street apartment stairs, running off to a bar because I had just gotten out of the hospital and was free. It literally snapped. Three weeks later, being a young woman living on her own and, in my eyes, a sitting duck to the nefarious types loitering the streets at night when I hopped home from comedy clubs on one foot, I took a wrench and pried the cast from my leg. The foot still has a crooked point where the bone is askew. Until last June, I would always favor my right leg because of it.
The difference between the two injuries is, well, 23 years. I got away with it when I was 25. Not so much this time.
About two weeks ago, 8 months after I fell, my knees quit hurting. Yesterday I walked 7 miles. It hurt a little but I guess it would have anyway. Its a freakin' spring miracle. The damage from my sedentary life that began with that injury is nothing like I have ever experienced. I used to bounce back. This time my body atrophied and gained weight almost immediately.
You would think I could get away with just letting it all go. I'm almost 50. Isn't this the part when all of those old lady rules about aging with dignity and having a lot of tea parties and not wearing skirts above your knee start kicking in? No such luck. Our next show goes back up again on May 23rd. I will be running in (lower) heels, dancing and moving constantly. It is almost a certainty that if I do not take care of myself, I will injure myself before that run is out.
There is a part of me that is wired by my need to perform physical comedy. Thank God for that because it hurts so much now to do it. I am no longer indestructible. It takes energy I never needed to have before. Yes, I think being healthy is good, but, honestly, not falling off the mezzanine again is a much larger motivator.
So next time I injure myself.....and there will be a next time because there always is.....I put whatever part it is that I busted up on ice and stop till it heals. I don't intend on acting like I am almost 50 but I can't forget the actuality that I am.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
St. Ann and The Church of the Late In The Day Lady Comics
This is Ann. I say 'is' on purpose.
http://apodolske.blogspot.com/2010/06/love-to-you-all-june-1-2010.html
Note how she apologized to those she couldn't get to because she was busy dying. That, "Sorry!" at the end just nails me every time because it could have been written with a number of inflections. Sincerely. Kindly. Or ironically. Probably all of them at once.
See that? Right there could seem a wee disrepectful to the recently deceased, right?Accusing a dying woman of being ironic? But she would have laughed. Comedy that is worth its salt is also worth a risk sometimes too. She got that. Most lady comics do.
Ann lived in the Northampton area, pretty far from Boston but close to some other lady comic friends, Boney and Jennifer. Jennifer and Ann often traveled together. I met her doing Jennifer's Girls! Girls! Girls! show at The Pace Center in Easthampton. Jennifer's fiance Scott was always there too. I loved being around them. No one made me laugh harder. Jennifer called us 'lady comics' because it was exactly right.
Ann died in 2010, shortly after the passing of her life partner of a decade and a half, Linda. As you can see from her writing, she didn't want to go. It was too early yet.
We still share our love and admiration for her. When I see Jennifer and Scott, I see Ann too. It's the beauty of being a Lady Comic. Just because you are gone, doesn't mean that you aren't here with us too.
http://apodolske.blogspot.com/2010/06/love-to-you-all-june-1-2010.html
Note how she apologized to those she couldn't get to because she was busy dying. That, "Sorry!" at the end just nails me every time because it could have been written with a number of inflections. Sincerely. Kindly. Or ironically. Probably all of them at once.
See that? Right there could seem a wee disrepectful to the recently deceased, right?Accusing a dying woman of being ironic? But she would have laughed. Comedy that is worth its salt is also worth a risk sometimes too. She got that. Most lady comics do.
Ann lived in the Northampton area, pretty far from Boston but close to some other lady comic friends, Boney and Jennifer. Jennifer and Ann often traveled together. I met her doing Jennifer's Girls! Girls! Girls! show at The Pace Center in Easthampton. Jennifer's fiance Scott was always there too. I loved being around them. No one made me laugh harder. Jennifer called us 'lady comics' because it was exactly right.
Ann died in 2010, shortly after the passing of her life partner of a decade and a half, Linda. As you can see from her writing, she didn't want to go. It was too early yet.
We still share our love and admiration for her. When I see Jennifer and Scott, I see Ann too. It's the beauty of being a Lady Comic. Just because you are gone, doesn't mean that you aren't here with us too.
Circus Geek In The Classical Sense
I cannot tell you how many times that I have almost stepped on a contortionist.
Usually they are on a mat somewhere on a floor space when not on the
stage stretching. Constantly. Sometimes they stop to eat or go to the
bathroom. Same goes for the aerial acts but not as extreme. You can also find them standing on their hands. The hand balancing acts are particularly partial to being upside down. All of them stretching and prepping. They are athletes who are performers. Their bodies are machines. You won't find Doritos backstage.
The hoop acts and the jugglers are perfectionists. They work on their acts at home mostly probably because someone might get hit. Timing and physical pliability and strength is pertinent to their work. Group acts remind me of the dozers in Fraggle Rock only more creative with better outfits. Work work work don't screw up fix it if you do work work work.
The band is huge, a well oiled beast designed to entertain when they need to entertain and blend when they need to blend. It takes a while to get past the borg and meet the individuals. Everyone of the members are trained and extremely skilled in their own right. They also take longer to get set up than anyone in the show because their act requires so many people fine tuning so many parts. Often they are playing when we are eating or backstage prepping.
The dancers traveled in a swarm of costumes and female energy. Two different teams...the burlesque performers and the more traditional dancers.....moved in a protective bubble of familiarity and objective. Many of them knew the circus acts and there was moments of connecting but mostly it is about the collective.
I've never been in a place where perfect is so essential to the show. Organic improvisation...the cornerstone for creating my characters..... is for the creative process, getting to the stage and to redeem a moment when perfection was marred. After that it can bunk up the works.
There are a few times in life when you walk into a new place that is important to you and you feel absolutely like an outsider. A new school. A new job. Summer camp. Everyone is canoodling and hugging and reminiscing and there you are with nothing to offer in the familiar social structure.And, in this case, the majority of people are perfect looking human specimens with bodies that are fine tuned for strength and balance. Even if someone is built bulkier than the lithe creatures that make up most of them, they are solid muscle. Nothing on earth could possibly make a soul with image issues feel more ungainly and old than a room full of circus performers. Even a fashion model can't stick a toe in their ear.
When I walked into the theatre, my actor writer ego went out the window and I became the proverbial chicken head biting carnival geek freak. I am not suspended from the ceiling by my toes. My ability to playing,well, anything, in the band is limited to a decent enough singer, who can play piano by ear a little because sheet music is too complicated. Juggling sounds fun if I ever actually tried which I haven't. And if I could, there is a big difference between tossing a ball up in a pattern verses standing on another persons shoulders and flipping pins in perfect alignment while one or two or three catches and returns it back at to me to music.
However within the dynamics of a traditional carnival, a geek is still considered a skilled laborer. Have you ever had to hold a live chicken ? Without the motivation of holding it still to fit your mouth around its head enough to bite it off without getting pecked? Not easy. Hell, the idea of a giant mouth trying to sink its teeth around my neck would send me into a conniption too and I have an i.q.. I could see why this would draw the curious and impress an audience with the performer's determination, how this performer would eventually be accepted into the family of acts after proving his worth.
So I accepted the carnival geek challenge, in this instance being one of the two people in the circus to string the words together to make sense of the show and give the circus acts a reason to be there. And to pretend I am a homicidal yet funny mob boss.
Our shows had run about monthly and rotated acts so we would do a full out tech/dress rehearsal the day of show. We would have one hour to eat dinner and then run two back to back performances. By the time we got done, all of us had been running for around 10 hours, many of us pushing our bodies to extremes.
Sometimes there was a second wind but this last night, several of us wound up in one of the dressing room quietly talking, delaying exuding the energy needed to pack up the room. Other times some would go out and dance while the band kept playing but it was February and so many of us had been ill with colds or one of the plethora of viral/bacterial nuisances that took its toll on a body. A juggler was reading a book. A aerialist was talking to my co-writer/actor. A lady was sitting in the lap of another juggler. One of the other juggler deftly unhooked the bra of the ingenue act when giving her a hug. It was depressurization. It was nice. Cold was outside. The shows had sold out. The audience was delighted. Their youth and perfection still intimidated me but I did my job too. They were just people now until later when they put their circus back on and I go back to being a geek.
The hoop acts and the jugglers are perfectionists. They work on their acts at home mostly probably because someone might get hit. Timing and physical pliability and strength is pertinent to their work. Group acts remind me of the dozers in Fraggle Rock only more creative with better outfits. Work work work don't screw up fix it if you do work work work.
The band is huge, a well oiled beast designed to entertain when they need to entertain and blend when they need to blend. It takes a while to get past the borg and meet the individuals. Everyone of the members are trained and extremely skilled in their own right. They also take longer to get set up than anyone in the show because their act requires so many people fine tuning so many parts. Often they are playing when we are eating or backstage prepping.
The dancers traveled in a swarm of costumes and female energy. Two different teams...the burlesque performers and the more traditional dancers.....moved in a protective bubble of familiarity and objective. Many of them knew the circus acts and there was moments of connecting but mostly it is about the collective.
I've never been in a place where perfect is so essential to the show. Organic improvisation...the cornerstone for creating my characters..... is for the creative process, getting to the stage and to redeem a moment when perfection was marred. After that it can bunk up the works.
There are a few times in life when you walk into a new place that is important to you and you feel absolutely like an outsider. A new school. A new job. Summer camp. Everyone is canoodling and hugging and reminiscing and there you are with nothing to offer in the familiar social structure.And, in this case, the majority of people are perfect looking human specimens with bodies that are fine tuned for strength and balance. Even if someone is built bulkier than the lithe creatures that make up most of them, they are solid muscle. Nothing on earth could possibly make a soul with image issues feel more ungainly and old than a room full of circus performers. Even a fashion model can't stick a toe in their ear.
When I walked into the theatre, my actor writer ego went out the window and I became the proverbial chicken head biting carnival geek freak. I am not suspended from the ceiling by my toes. My ability to playing,well, anything, in the band is limited to a decent enough singer, who can play piano by ear a little because sheet music is too complicated. Juggling sounds fun if I ever actually tried which I haven't. And if I could, there is a big difference between tossing a ball up in a pattern verses standing on another persons shoulders and flipping pins in perfect alignment while one or two or three catches and returns it back at to me to music.
However within the dynamics of a traditional carnival, a geek is still considered a skilled laborer. Have you ever had to hold a live chicken ? Without the motivation of holding it still to fit your mouth around its head enough to bite it off without getting pecked? Not easy. Hell, the idea of a giant mouth trying to sink its teeth around my neck would send me into a conniption too and I have an i.q.. I could see why this would draw the curious and impress an audience with the performer's determination, how this performer would eventually be accepted into the family of acts after proving his worth.
So I accepted the carnival geek challenge, in this instance being one of the two people in the circus to string the words together to make sense of the show and give the circus acts a reason to be there. And to pretend I am a homicidal yet funny mob boss.
Our shows had run about monthly and rotated acts so we would do a full out tech/dress rehearsal the day of show. We would have one hour to eat dinner and then run two back to back performances. By the time we got done, all of us had been running for around 10 hours, many of us pushing our bodies to extremes.
Sometimes there was a second wind but this last night, several of us wound up in one of the dressing room quietly talking, delaying exuding the energy needed to pack up the room. Other times some would go out and dance while the band kept playing but it was February and so many of us had been ill with colds or one of the plethora of viral/bacterial nuisances that took its toll on a body. A juggler was reading a book. A aerialist was talking to my co-writer/actor. A lady was sitting in the lap of another juggler. One of the other juggler deftly unhooked the bra of the ingenue act when giving her a hug. It was depressurization. It was nice. Cold was outside. The shows had sold out. The audience was delighted. Their youth and perfection still intimidated me but I did my job too. They were just people now until later when they put their circus back on and I go back to being a geek.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
On The Brink Of Over The Side Of The Hill
I fully expect to be walking down the street and have an arm drop off. Or feel a little thump as my kidney implodes. Something abrupt and permanent. Because so far the aging thing is being very sneaky and slow. Something's got to give.
I've got to give my younger friends a lot of credit. When I was their age, I would have brushed off a parental age friend no matter how deeply immature they are from brain damage. I was never as open minded as they are. Their generation is more tolerant in general.
I was raised in an era when acceptance was being grown. When I was born, black people were just beginning to make leeway in the fight for their rights. Gay people were whispered about if they weren't in the closet completely. Woman had lit the match but not burned a bra yet. If you got preggers out of marriage, it was a tragedy. Divorce was not unusual but not usual either. You were brash and sassy if you said the word "orgasm" aloud. We never heard of "recycling trash" although in my childhood I was terrified of acid raining on my head and nuclear bombs destroying Callicoon, NY specifically. I see myself as a person who has lived several times in worlds that don't exist any more, all crammed into one person.
There was the life time when a disease killed so many young people around me until it was staved off by a handful of pills while friends stood on the edge of their death sentence, rescued at the last minute. That's the time in my life when my parents were still young enough to be parents like in the movies. I lived in the East Village and always felt wonderfully dreadfully alive. That is when I saw now famous rich people naked living in then poor people shitty apartments. High on life or down in the New York City gutter with no in between. It was going to last forever. But it didn't.
And there was another life time when I was sick and my life quit completely. Those are the years when we became permanently dependent on computers and cellphones and I became dependent on, well, everyone. At the end of that time, so many people in my family disappeared, taken by old age and illness that the majority of the people I associated as adults in my childhood were essentially erased. We moved to New England at the end of that one.
And this last one? I stand at the top of the hill ready to fall into the hole that my parent's generation left so empty, vacating it with the end of their existence this time in this world. Not feeling old. Just up to my eyeballs in debt from the other lives. Still looking for new stimulus, new people, new stories to tell. But with joints that are damaged from injuries that never would have bothered me before and a head full of screws. The body has shifted a little too but that's okay because I am not alone and my goals are still keeping me focused. I am less afraid, more accepting, grateful for the people left in my life.
We all just want to live without worry and sometimes there is a price. Practicality. Playing it safe. There is nothing wrong with it. It just isn't me and I doubt it ever will be. Every time I write a damned script or come up with another five minutes of an act I am opening myself up to a process that could end badly. And there is no room to let my body deteriorate. I need all of me in tact mentally and physically. There is pain that doesn't heal easily now if I don't.
So now when I take those steps out of my comfort zone, I am used to it because I have lived it those other times. And I know well that I could die any second because I've missed my demise so many times before. Physical exertion hurts more and, paradoxically, is necessary to insure that I can physically exert myself. Humiliation is not welcome but when the gambles I take creatively go out an ugly death, I know there is an end to the sensation eventually. People are going to cease to exist around me and never before have I felt so certain that there but for the grace of God go I. And the ticking clock tells me to work harder. Because as young or old as I feel, it is finite. A cat only has so many lives.
I've got to give my younger friends a lot of credit. When I was their age, I would have brushed off a parental age friend no matter how deeply immature they are from brain damage. I was never as open minded as they are. Their generation is more tolerant in general.
I was raised in an era when acceptance was being grown. When I was born, black people were just beginning to make leeway in the fight for their rights. Gay people were whispered about if they weren't in the closet completely. Woman had lit the match but not burned a bra yet. If you got preggers out of marriage, it was a tragedy. Divorce was not unusual but not usual either. You were brash and sassy if you said the word "orgasm" aloud. We never heard of "recycling trash" although in my childhood I was terrified of acid raining on my head and nuclear bombs destroying Callicoon, NY specifically. I see myself as a person who has lived several times in worlds that don't exist any more, all crammed into one person.
There was the life time when a disease killed so many young people around me until it was staved off by a handful of pills while friends stood on the edge of their death sentence, rescued at the last minute. That's the time in my life when my parents were still young enough to be parents like in the movies. I lived in the East Village and always felt wonderfully dreadfully alive. That is when I saw now famous rich people naked living in then poor people shitty apartments. High on life or down in the New York City gutter with no in between. It was going to last forever. But it didn't.
And there was another life time when I was sick and my life quit completely. Those are the years when we became permanently dependent on computers and cellphones and I became dependent on, well, everyone. At the end of that time, so many people in my family disappeared, taken by old age and illness that the majority of the people I associated as adults in my childhood were essentially erased. We moved to New England at the end of that one.
And this last one? I stand at the top of the hill ready to fall into the hole that my parent's generation left so empty, vacating it with the end of their existence this time in this world. Not feeling old. Just up to my eyeballs in debt from the other lives. Still looking for new stimulus, new people, new stories to tell. But with joints that are damaged from injuries that never would have bothered me before and a head full of screws. The body has shifted a little too but that's okay because I am not alone and my goals are still keeping me focused. I am less afraid, more accepting, grateful for the people left in my life.
We all just want to live without worry and sometimes there is a price. Practicality. Playing it safe. There is nothing wrong with it. It just isn't me and I doubt it ever will be. Every time I write a damned script or come up with another five minutes of an act I am opening myself up to a process that could end badly. And there is no room to let my body deteriorate. I need all of me in tact mentally and physically. There is pain that doesn't heal easily now if I don't.
So now when I take those steps out of my comfort zone, I am used to it because I have lived it those other times. And I know well that I could die any second because I've missed my demise so many times before. Physical exertion hurts more and, paradoxically, is necessary to insure that I can physically exert myself. Humiliation is not welcome but when the gambles I take creatively go out an ugly death, I know there is an end to the sensation eventually. People are going to cease to exist around me and never before have I felt so certain that there but for the grace of God go I. And the ticking clock tells me to work harder. Because as young or old as I feel, it is finite. A cat only has so many lives.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)