I'm understanding why you can't see the priest while you give your confession. Admitting your sins to set of eyes, a mouth, a swallowing throat, a subtly twitching cheek muscle, is impossible. Or, if you can reach past that shame, descriptions refuse to unfold. Okay, for me, at least.


I've never successfully been in therapy. For someone like me, it should be enforced, but in a world where therapy is enforced, I probably never would have ended up in therapy, so work your way out of that one. I had a food therapist for being too fat for a while in my prime breast budding years. I had a therapist for being overworked when I had repeated panic attacks about college applications and actually slid down the fridge in my parents' kitchen like I was in a movie. I had a therapist in college when I was so sad and lost and alone and filled with murderous rage. They gave me Wellbutrin and I drank a lot, so instead of getting better I spent a lot of time vomiting and once, sobbing, biked across the sand to the edge of Lake Michigan and contemplated simply riding down into the depths. Not my best laid plans.


Now, I'm back in therapy again. This week my therapist wore the same dress as at our last session and I was enraged. All I could think about was how the strange bejeweled waist-buckle pushed up at her breasts and made her look kind of dumpy. I want to tell her that and other things, but I won't. And this is the problem. I can't tell the truth to a therapist. When I want to say, "The fan above my bed has become my fucking sword of Damocles," I actually say, "It's hard to fall asleep at night." I plead ignorance of things that I absolutely know the answer to. I should say, "Yes, I'm probably depressed, but I'm fairly sure, as all other depressives are, that I am seeing the world as it actually is and if you take that away from me, I will become a liar." It's hard to look into someone's face and tell them about the blood-curdling rage I feel or the lies I've told to other people to make myself seem not so pathetic or how I like that I'm kind of good at lying or that I think I tire of people easily. I want to tell her about the fears I have that I might be a complete sociopath and the fantasies I have about being a complete sociopath. I want to tell her I'm obsessed with purity and imagine myself being slowly poisoned by the world, such that I'm becoming a spiritually voided hole. I want to say all the filthy and disgusting things I think and know. I also want to tell her about the beautiful things. I want to tell her about the time I nearly came, fucked out of my head on E, leaning against a warehouse wall at a rave, without anyone touching me. I want to tell her about how writing is an act of possession for me. I want her to know that dancing feels so good to me that it's like worship and my body seems an inadequate casing for my expansive soul. I want to tell her about how much I see everyday, how the world is blasted open for me minute by minute and I know so much more than I ever thought I could. But, I end up saying things like, "Of course, I am can be bad at expressing my desires and bottle up my feelings when things don't go my way." 


The act of translation is exhausting. I have to take the magic words of my truth and force them to sound like words that will not make me cry. (It is horrifying to think I would go anywhere once a week just to cry for an hour. Such indulgence!) It's such hard work. It makes me resent her, as if she's meant to be some sort of rune expert who can read my words all backwards. I bet she would hate me if she knew. The confession booth is a success in that regard. There's no face to stare into so there's less hiding, the ultimate listener (being omnipotent) is an alchemist of thought and you don't have to do that work. You can continue to exist in a pleasant land of cognitive dissonance. Do you think a therapist wants to hear your opinions on the failings of psychiatric practice, jacking them as you did straight from Foucault and some angry books about Freud? When that friend's friend goes to her therapist and gives her a long speech about how the therapist must be judging her for suffering only extremely bourgeois issues, do you not think the lady goes home to laugh?


I've been trying a bit of non-translation this week. I have said: "I am afraid of being looked at, just looked at with, without any of my usual distractions or deflections." "The thing is, the whole website is the things you know to be true of your surface, but you really, really hope are not true of your heart. It's the worst." "I don't want to be here and I don't want to talk about what's happening inside me." "I'm coming for you." And each time, my skin felt tight and itchy and I got hot and that good ole' eye juice threatened to fall. But, I'd like to become the girl with the unnerving stare and the frighteningly apt phrasing.


I feel like I mentioned tits a lot. By which I mean, I put that in here for a little levity, because I'm afraid people think I'm deeply sad. Because now G has said it and has said that it makes him afraid for me, so thanks, you asshole, now I gotta carry that one around.

Finding a Clown Name

Is proving difficult. I want something sharp and cutting, a little dangerous, androgynous, slightly sexy in a sort of cockney, I've-got-a-blunt-instrument-and-I-will-use-it kind of way. Character clown names have arrived more easily than this, my personal clown. Character clowns have a very specific context and when I name them I am contributing to an already established, overall mood. This feels tricky because I have to move inside the name with my whole self.

Anyway, I've considered:
Zipper
Stonk
Drip
Borbor
Clack
GusGus
Shit-for-brains (inspired by the Puritans religious phrase naming tradition)
Dilly
Cram(p)
Kramppp
Headlock
Knees
Tomtom
Schufti
Tracer
Nebuchadnezzar
Marmaduke
Lapsang
Frank(ie)
IkkleEcho

And as per usual, the internet provides a myriad of resources which are, in fact, no help at all.

2009, early summer, at the baohaus front stoop, LSD: I see the skin of everything. Every part of the street scene laid out in front of me is just some bubbling bubbling bubbling held together by skin that is made up of runes that look like neon, flashing watermark on money. Some of the runes I find I already know but there are ones that I also do not. Realizing that to make anything new all you have to do is pick the right runes and sow them into a new skin and wrap it round the bubbling bubbling bubbling. SRT gives everything a consciousness and we accidentally discover phenomenology, which we haven't learned about yet. I spend a good chunk of the night writhing in pain and speaking gibberish while S holds me.

2010, cusp of spring, E.D.'s bedroom primarily, mushrooms: We emerge from freezing cold Lapland, noses dripping, and enter the forest. I find myself in a dense thicket of strings, pulled tight from sky to ground. I remove myself from our hiding place under the bed (E stays down) and stand up to the play "the harp of the universe." Barely have to move because all the strings are so close together, can't string it myself, because there are no materials for new strings. Strings are all metal and most as thick as the low notes on a piano. Later look at my face in the mirror and seen the runes again, which surprises me considering the time between, other trips, and difference in chemical composition. i am a little scared of that face.

2011, first half of winter, my seeming gigantic bed, marijuana: feeling like the back of my head has been blown out and i am leaking into everything else (when i see something real good this is how i want to feel - like the boundaries of my skin do not exist and i can slip into the thing i have seen). listening to philip glass, feeling like i might easily be dying because i am being yanked so vigorously around by the music. remember the harp, see again the harp, won't just play the harp with my hands this time, but my whole body. choked and probably gurgling. did i cry? pass out from exhaustion in the wee hours of the morning. i checked the clock.

Which is to say, I agree with Grotowski on the use of research as an appropriate word to apply to theatre. He says they find what is already there and merely give it form. I'm into that. The other stuff (punishing asceticism, disgust for electicism, disdain for other forms, lack of intersectionality, paternalism)...not so much?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you intimacy.

I love these two videos:





I think to myself, if I could make any art, I would want it all to be like this. It's hard to explain.

• I find a strange pleasure in being allowed to look at one person for an extended period of time, but also being looked back at by them. It is intimate. There is also something about looking into people's faces when they've just been thrashing about that feels honest.
  
• There is something unabashedly goofy and stupid about these two. They are not good dancers and it's glorious. But, I get to see the singularness of their movement and it's like seeing more of a person than they could ever say.
• This reminds me of so many nights alone in my room, having a dance party by myself. Maybe they capture the ecstatic, prayer-like connection to the thrumming of the universe that I feel in those moments. In the most recent class I took, I found myself dancing my way into my pieces. I would start with a song and movement quality and go from there. Because dancing has been feeling truer than speaking recently. (I don't feel connected to my voice on stage and I am so reluctant to speak.)
• Little pieces of lovely nastiness. Thom's sweaty pits and dirty hair. Robyn's inept floor humping and hilarious snarls.
  
• Simple. Person. Background. Lights. Images that are about nothing.
  
• Maybe this is part of intimacy, but there is a gentleness to be found here. I talk a lot about my depravity, how debased I can be, how cruel in the art that I make, but I have been craving kindness of late. I want to be good and sweet and comforting, without irony, without comment.
• These feel like a gifts.

There's a quiet space that exists in me and in anyone really that needs to be shared. It reminds me that we are made of soft, fleshy tissue. So you know, I contradict myself.

Asking the same question, a different way.

I have a little button inside my brain that when it gets pushed a bright neon sign flashes behind my eyes that says, "You are not a good enough feminist." Two recent encounters pushed that button. Seeing the Ladies Ring Shout and reading this article. This is not to say either were meant to make me crumble beneath the weight of radical neurosis, but because they are saying things I admire and agree with but might not necessarily practice myself, I got to thinking. Or really asking myself that same question I seemingly cannot answer. Is my theatre feminist theatre?

Okay, this I know. I do feminism as a practice in my work, for sure. This has borne itself out in the arrangement we have constructed within H&NAS. We work together, collaboratively, undermining both the cult of individuality and the culture of competition that is often bred into young women. We write our own scripts, design our own costumes, book our own shows, buy our own stuff, modify things, paint our own faces, DIY ourselves to death essentially. Our characters are not women written by men (if they are women at all) and they are always three dimensional. We have learned to say no to what hurts. We check-in at each rehearsal so we can acknowledge and use the feelings we bring with us, instead of shoving them aside for "the work." "The work" does not trump our well-being. We seem to have the trappings of a scrappy lil'punk lady band. But, but, but.

But the issue that Bree McKennan and The Ladies Ring Shout bring up for me is not about process but product. When we obfuscate, when we relocate to the obscure, to the less confrontational, what do we get? Do we get a feminist product?

John McGrath, in one of his essay-lectures from A Good Night Out, talks about employing directness in creating working-class theatre. Such audiences want theatre-makers to say what they mean, to baldly admit their position. Bourgeois audiences love vagary, atmosphere, intrigue because it allows them to "solve" the play, to do a critical reading of it, as they were taught in whatever fancy school they attended. They see the simple act of talking to an audience as an attempt to tell them what to think. McGrath posits that working class folk appreciate hearing a perspective and then forming their own opinion on it. Now to me, this is what the Ladies Ring Shout do. It's kind of lovely to be asked, who is hurting feminism for women of color? Or, who are you to even answer that question? That feels, though the ladies are performing and I supposed to watch and shut up, like a conversation. I appreciate the shit out of that shit. I like that brand of confrontation and openness.

We do not ask questions and I would not say the the tone of H&NAS performances are conversational. Maybe the evidence pool is too small, but I would say, in general, we do not outright state our opinions on inequality (a lot of this possibly having to do with the fact that we probably disagree on those issues). We have a grand absurdist and surrealist streak. We would dry hump narrative if it were a person. And these are things I love about us. Because I do deeply love Ionesco and Beckett and Monty Python and Lorca and Eno and all that other stuff. I had nerdiness bred into me and there is no escaping it. Sure we are weird as all get and that's a something. We scare people. And we are capable of creating both compelling discomfort and comfort. But we are not so straightforward as other artists. There is unpacking that goes on in seeing one of our performances and the same is true of things that I have directed or written on my own. Feminism comes up in the content of the theatre I make, but it is often hidden.

It is quite possible that this is the result of being told that girls don't speak up or at least have take super roundabout routes to get what they want (i.e. behind every great man there is a woman or whatever). I went to a school for young ladies after all. But what I really think is the John McGrath has got me pinned.

Do I suffer a bourgeois problem? And is that bad? You see, I have no qualms about describing myself as bourgeois. Side note fun times: I would really like to do away with the more recent semantic development that is the word "privilege." It's a word that softens the blow of oppression by contributing to disappearance of the word bourgeois. Everybody has a little bit of privilege in some capacity and so we all think of ourselves on a great ladder of having and are pitted against one another in individual identity groups. We have stopped dividing the world into bourgeois and not bourgeois. We have defanged the devil, which is what I was raised as and what other people continue to be. That's some old school social shit right there.

And you know, my self mythology that I have wildly constructed is pretty compelling, making it hard to do away with that identity. I have assigned myself a handful of magic and it is for sure book magic. I have always considered myself a bit of a trickster and a seducer (a necromancer if you will!). Identifying most clearly with spies and diplomats and shape-shifters over kings and war heroes. I dreamed of being Loki and Matahari as a kid. And of course, my one great familial inheritance is assimilation. I come from a family of hiders-in-plain-sight. Now despite my lack of connection to Judaism or Jewish culture, this little idea holds firm in my psyche. I think probably somebody somewhere probably compared Jews to sand or insects or something. We slip in at the cracks and chew at the crown molding. But it takes a long time for folks to notice the damage we've done. I am convinced that people suspect, but cannot see the dark, dangerous thing that lurks behind my wardrobe of dresses and my long hair. And I do take great pleasure in undermining the expectations my visual presentation instills in people. I pride myself on being silver-tongued and charming, in order to ensnare. That is my origin myth. The ur-me slunk out of a crack in the cold Russian mountains, chowed down on an unsuspecting village, wiped her bloody mouth, and sat down in a classroom full of other girls to learn speak proper so that people would ignore the dried blood under her fingernails. Books, my path to power.

But also, what does one do once one has admitted to being bourgeois? What do I do with that? Seriously, now what? Because Suzan-Lori Parks (my fucking hero) says, "The last thing American theatre needs is another lame play." And she accuses her fellows of trying way too hard to SAY SOMETHING, to MAKE STATEMENTS. Suzan-Lori, you're confusing me. I love you and I love John McGrath and I don't know who to believe. Like literally stylistically, I do not know what I want. I spent months agonizing over this while writing my thesis - mostly concerning myself with trying to come up with a solid feminist theatrical identity. But I kept running into the problematic fact of my existence as a Millenial (I HATE THIS TERM, BUT THERE AREN'T ANY BETTER ONES). In my mind, my generation is one of pastiche and multiple identities. Most of us at heart are pluralists. I tried to make a list of things I am okay with people calling me. It's long. And I cannot cross any of them off. So how can I and do I even need to shuck off the bougee-ass-bullshit part of me?

Of course, We could end this all with an oft-quoted Aileen saying. "Everybody has a gender. All plays are about gender. So whatever."

quickly quickly because there's a lot to do
everything is happening
except in the dull moments when it's not
and the panic moments when it is, but it's too much to bear

i hate work, i want to work, i need work
i've lost the thread a little bit about why or how
but i keep looking

i see a play or seven
i hate some, i need some
oh god
i saw black watch tonight
in an armory of all places
(why don't we use armories more, they're so oddly beautiful)
i meant to see black watch in 2006
but i didn't because i was young and things don't matter the same way when you're sixteen
so so so
it's so good
plays about masculinity
of course i love them
because there's so much dancing and singing and fighting
as i walk the three blocks home
i whisper under my breath
as my heels click on the pavement, imitating those brave boys
"if there's any thing at all that i ever do, ever, may it be like that"
please
please
please
i draw a salt circle round my mind
i offer up my spectacular weakness, my bone-breaking pleasure-seeking
like salieri on my knees in church
this sink hole ache will bleed herself dry to have a glimpse of that
i will slice open goats
burn every stick of incense
and i will try to work, try so hard
stephen fry says, "everything that motivates me in life is emotional and appetitive, it is not intellectual...my whole life has been driven by nothing but desire, for all kinds of things, it started i think with sugar, it was an almost feverous desire, it was absolutely enormous, it was replaced by cigarettes and sex, it was the same physical thing...and love and passion too, the intellectual side is the slave of that desirous side."
you can have that
delete it

once i was an automaton
and i am glad that i can feel again
but i miss the old girl
the serious little girl
who craved little but the chance to work and then be alone

i suppose that might be wrong
i don't care?

Kernels and seeds

By about fifth week of spring quarter, I am going to have to hand in a Bachelor of the Arts project in order to graduate from my venerated institution. I don't have a clue as to what it's going to be about. There are things that I like and dislike, however, and maybe those things will help point me in a direction.

I like projectors and images that can waver and be walked through and can move and morph. I like non-traditional light sources, like flashlights, cellphones, LEDs, glowsticks, christmas lights, and fire. I love the elements. I want dirt and water on stage. I wish I could stage something in a pool or in Lake Michigan. I want to start a movement that puts all its plays in bodies of water. I would be suspicious of a kiddie pool. I like sand and rocks, but I also like forests. I like being barefoot and I have a taste for the mystical. I love theater that has a tingle of magic. I love watching people smear one another with various substances.

I like repetition and revision. I am fascinated my ritual and the building of it based on no God, no history, no tradition. I am interested in feminism that does not revere the past, unless it reveres the deep past, the witchiness of women, the shadows that slip by unnoticed but catch the corner of your eye. I am interested in the building of identity, in the group mind, in theater that supports my politics, and in the oceanic feeling. I like silent screams, moans, yawps, and baos. I want to move beyond Aristotle. I am not concerned with real vs. unreal only with consistency within a given space. I like non-traditional spaces. I like blood and want to see how I am might cross an audiences' boundaries with real blood. I have thought about making hooking the subject of this project. I like the sound of Carnal Art. I like sensory overload and experiential art. I love Olafur Elisson. I dig trips and hallucinations.

I think I might like one person audiences. But I care if people think I'm too bizarre. Throbbing, I like theater that throbs. I have liked Mabou Mines and Holly Hughes. I like Adrienne Kennedy and Suzan-Lori Parks. I love the Absurdists and the Magical Realists. I realize I am the product of a lot of things, but I hate consumerism and big-budget anything and useless wheely-swingy bits that do nothing. I like DIY. I wish theater smelled more. I think I like basic but sometimes I like the over-stuffed. There is part of me that is secretly Victorian. I am huge creep and have a taste for the dark, but also the baudy and distasteful. Theater could be a burp.

But I mostly think that art is another country, where the rules are yours to make up.