the unforgiven

i know this (among many other things) might sound really insecure, but whenever I send out a message–voice or email–to a friend who does not respond, i somehow convince myself that i have said or done something terribly, heinously and unforgivingly wrong. something really really bad and awful.

like yesterday. i sent a friend a glowing review of this performance i did in the ’90s because i thought she’d be curious. and usually she responds within seconds. but since i still have not heard from her, i am reasonably certain she saw it as arrogant and narcissistic. and then if i send her an apology, she’ll think it shows a lack of confidence, which has irritated her in the past. i could simply just not communicate at all until i hear from her. but that might come across as too aloof.

in spite of all of this, the quiet brain reminds me that even if i were arrogant, narcissistic, unconfident, and aloof, there are far worse things one can be or one could have done. it may take decades, but i am certain i will one day be forgiven.

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575

tonight on the elevator, this man asked this woman if she had heard the news about a 575 year old clam that was recently discovered and then accidentally killed by the scientists who discovered her/him.

i know there’s probably more to the story than what the man was telling the woman, but it was so perfect in its own way, right there in the elevator, that i will restrain myself from searching Google News because that would demystify everything.

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moral dilemma

i ran into this moral dilemma today while waiting for the train. Just as the train was arriving, i noticed a subway fare card falling to the tracks from the handbag of this person while she was removing her cellphone from her handbag… and she did not seem to notice it, from where I stood.

part of me wanted to cry out to her, “excuse me! you dropped your subway pass!” but i feared this might lead her to panic and leap to the tracks as the train pulled in.

but then if i did not say anything, she might then spend fruitless hours of frustration searching for it tomorrow morning. and, i really did not want her to have to discover this on her way to work. i know what an awful feeling that can be.

that was 5 hours ago and i am still mulling over the right thing to do. i like to think that i saved her life.

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ploughing

i’ve been ploughing through this blog, searching for fragments of things i can piece together into a performance that’s less than 2 weeks away. but my writing is lulling me to sleep.

it’s kind of funny. the act of writing keeps me awake, but reading it has the opposite effect.

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Rochester

sleep has been a real issue for me of late (meaning 20 years). i’ve been trying different strategies and mechanisms and formulas in pursuit of sleep, but it remains an enigma. i’m not quite sure how people do it.

last night i tried an experiment with melatonin. i took the suggested dose and i waited an hour for something to happen. but nothing happened. so i tried another dose. and i waited again. and still nothing. and by 4:30a.m. i may have tried a third dose which finally  knocked me out for 2 hours of really disconcerting but happy dreams… and then i had to go to work.

most of the day was spent in a thick fog. but as the day wore on, I had drank so much coffee that the fog had no other choice but to move somewhere else. although mania is a different kind of fog.

somehow made it through the work day, all charged up,  just in time to meet a former work colleague/friend for a drink in this vast ornate hotel lobby bar. the upscale happy hour scene. i swear i never drink and i’m not upscale and i honestly could not tell you if i am happy or not. although i am immensely grateful to be here. but i was compelled to order something called the Rockland or the Richmond or the Richmond, i really can’t remember what it was  called but basically it was a vodka martini, the size of a pond. with a waspy-sounding name that began with an “R.” Maybe it was a Rochester. i just don’t know.

after i drank about 1/4 of it, i began to notice that all of the gray haired people sitting around us, in this vast expansive ballroom, were making out. furiously making out….the kind that just goes on and on and on. but with a sense of desperation. the whole scene felt like a convergence of a 7th grade Friday night ‘spin the bottle’ party and a scene from The Shining. or maybe it just felt apocalyptic.

from there, i had to run to the theater to see a play by this playwright i barely know, but we have mutual admiration for each other’s work. the play had actually been running for about 6 weeks, but i had very strategically opted to go tonight because i knew for a fact that if i waited until tonight, there was no possibility of running into the person who spurned me over the summer.

i made it to the theater just in time, walked to a seat in the back row, utterly relieved that my plan was working perfectly. and just as the lights were fading down and music was fading up, this very person walked into the room. and i climbed into my copy of the program notes, hoping i could elude her. but it didn’t quite work. she asked if i would mind if she sat in the next chair. i said, of course not, please. we had not spoken since July.

the play was mainly about… for lack of a better term… the impossibility of human relationships, or the out-of-syncness of relationships. how fragmented we can be. i’m not really describing it very well because it’s late. and the only reason i am writing at all at this hour is because i may want to find meaning in this day at some point in the future and if i don’t capture some semblance of it now, it will be gone forever.

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land mines

i’ve been roaming around, evading one implosion after another. some of which i am aware, others of which i am entirely oblivious. the produce aisles at whole foods were particularly perilous … land mines scattered all around the apples and pears. i’m not sure where they came from, but it’s like a war zone around here. you can’t walk around idly in this town anymore. you have to walk with great precision, purpose and focus. you have to be really vigilant. i guess that’s why i no longer live here, in spirit.

 

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on beauty

i can’t seem to get past Jingle Bells. i guess i am talking about in my piano lessons. last week, Fred (my boundlessly patient teacher) told me that my Jingle Bells sounded like a dirge. i don’t know what it is about that song, but, for whatever reason, it’s become impenetrable to me. every time  i attempt it, i find something new to botch up. i can only play it very slowly and the notes go by so quickly, but no matter how i approach it, there is always something new to slip upon. perhaps that is the beauty of it. perhaps that is what beauty is all about.

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disempowering darkness

This might sound negative, but it’s really meant to be positive. i feel like i’m finally acknowledging an essential question:  am I really contributing  to the world as an artist anymore? this might sound like a question that one should never ask, but one should always question and always ask. i think.

somewhere around 6 or 7 years ago, people in my audiences would tell me that the work evoked sadness, or loneliness, or isolation, or angst, or despair. words like that. i always dismissed it. Certain people, but not all people, were not getting my sensibility, my dark sense of humor. could they not tell i was kidding, exaggerating, hypothesizing? did they really think i was being  literal? was it too subtle?  just because i write in the first person doesn’t mean that the work is about me. interpreting work as autobiographical is always so easy.

but so many people were responding that way, until it re-emerged as a feedback loop. the more work i put out into the world, the more i seemed to perpetuate it. those responses began bouncing back at me, to define me. they began to become my identity. they became a kind of filter. a kind of prison. a dead weight. i never wanted to settle into that.

so i began to wonder… what was the point of putting out more sadness, or loneliness or angst or despair or darkness out into the world–even if that was not at all my intent? my entire reason for making art was to create work that was transformational. i had always hoped that my work was maybe helping people feel less alone. maybe i was subverting sadness in a way that re-framed people’s perceptions.

but what happens when that kind of transformation does not occur? should i channel my energies elsewhere? should i try to create a new framework around the creative process?

maybe this is what i need to work on next. or maybe this is not about me at all. maybe it’s all about that character, that “I” at the center of the narrative. Maybe it’s time for that “I” to be replaced by a new character.

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Theorems

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good night

i am the silent type these days. i hope nobody takes it personally. actually it is a sign of immense respect. thank you for allowing this silence.

and now i must say goodnight. goodnight.

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leave of absence

i’ve decided to take a break from writing, which i know is maybe one of the worst things i could do. and it’s a shame, too. such a shame. because so much of my writing energy is getting sapped and tainted by typing words and forming sentences that have no real meaning, for hours and hours each day. like thousands upon thousands of words.

and it’s a shame because all of those words are ruining things for all of the other words i can think of, such as the ones i use to form this sentence. there is not a single word that has not been impacted by the other words that take up most of the space, during the rest of the day. it isn’t really fair. it’s not noble, or fair.

so i really must do something to clear out the air. and maybe that means abandoning all words, for the time being. i don’t know. i don’t really know what i should do. i should probably ask for help, but help is not always there.

which is not at all what i meant to say. not even close.

maybe when i return, i’ll be able to get closer.

 

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the kindness of trees

never underestimate the kindness of trees. not all trees, but most of them. most of them have their hearts in the right places. most of them are doing the best they can. they may be just barely getting by, but they certainly don’t show it. and one would never know it.

 

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saturday 11:35 pm

i just came home from a 2nd date with this person i met only once, 5 years ago. although i am not sure if this really counts as a 2nd date since this person has absolutely no recollection of ever having met me before. so this was like a fresh start, in a way. although i am not really sure if this even qualified as a date. i wonder if there’s a way to find out.

 

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EAD

at work, they made the announcement that the monthly mandatory employee birthday celebration would henceforth be known as Employee Appreciation Day. everyday seems to be Employee Appreciation Day there. I think there will now be more Employee Appreciation Days than there are Employees. it makes me almost uncomfortable to feel so appreciated, again and again.

I know I have written about this at least 16 times. so if you happen to have read one, you have read them all. i can’t seem to evade these recurring themes. this entire blog is basically one recurring theme.

Yesterday’s EAD had a Halloween theme. They served these obscenely large orange frosted cupcakes (I did take one, but I did not partake. I cut mine into 7 pieces, which I served to 7 students, which may have gone against employee policy).

and then there were the announcements of employee birthdays and anniversaries. i dutifully joined the applause for each, just curious to see what that would feel like.

i think i have finally figured out where I currently am.  I am living in the bardo. I’ve often heard people refer to it, but never really was sure what they meant, but now it all makes sense. Thank you Wikipedia.

“Used loosely, the term “bardo” refers to the state of existence intermediate between two lives on earth. According to Tibetan tradition, after death and before one’s next birth, when one’s consciousness is not connected with a physical body, one experiences a variety of phenomena. These usually follow a particular sequence of degeneration from, just after death, the clearest experiences of reality of which one is spiritually capable, and then proceeding to terrifying hallucinations that arise from the impulses of one’s previous unskillful actions. For the prepared and appropriately trained individuals the bardo offers a state of great opportunity for liberation, since transcendental insight may arise with the direct experience of reality, while for others it can become a place of danger as the karmically created hallucinations can impel one into a less than desirable rebirth.”

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smashed

i am not sure how it happened. i just heard the sound of crunching metal. and i saw the 2 cars facing each other in a stalemate… one with its door smashed off. i saw the people emerge from the crash, floating. they seemed well enough to be negotiating how to settle it. the crash. but i’m not sure how it happened.

the crash occurred in almost the exact same spot where i almost met my demise 5 years ago. but back then, we rode bicycles. and today, we do not.

there is some sinister force inhabiting that spot. i am far too squeamish to write about it, especially this close to bedtime.

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