December Poems

Poem for Joni:


“We are waiting for a visitor.”

There is a white table
in an alley
with 2 chairs
a single wine glass
(filled with rain)
on top
(She has whispered
secrets of the universe,
infused those H2Os,
that water is
pretty potent--watch out)

The wind takes out his
pocket watch
blows it open/shut/contemplates...

Is it the season
for reasonable things?

Rain and wind wait
for their dinner guest.
The table is set.
And whispers are afoot.

For Tracie:

It must be 5 o'clock.
She dries the last dishes
delicately places them
in their individual slots
on the Value Village
drying rack they call home.

Today is the day,
she thinks,
today is the day
it will all start to make sense.
I will slowly make my way out of the labyrinth
because I can follow
this long ball of yarn that I
have carefully unraveled.

Today I will read Plath,
she is my sister.
But I will travel back
in time and save her
from herself, pull her
head out of the oven
and say ,"These are your children,
they need you.
Please stay."
And she will listen.

Today I won't dot "i's" or
cross "t's"
on purpose.

She pauses.
Brews a pot of tea
in a well-loved teapot.
Pours.
Lets the steam
caress her face.
Peers down into the cup.
Wonders if the leaves will show her a map to the stars.

For Reina:

November skies
make me think of
flying turkeys,
decomposing jack o'lanterns

(make me miss your smile)
the russet-toned leaves
parachute down
crunch like paper beneath my feet

we were young, once,
you know.

and sometimes life wooshes by
terribly fast
and I feel like a crumpled autumn leaf
but I know
that if you found me
in a big pile of oranges, golds and crimsons:

you would pick me out from all the rest
and press me between the pages
of Neruda or Dickinson
and I would live happily ever after
inside those poems.

what does a boom mike do?

So Max and I tried to film the first episode of Getting Woodzy today and it was a rather epic fail--we realized that neither one of us really knew how the camera worked...and although it was fun to drag my bamboo chairs from Good Cheer from my porch into a wooded area near my apartment, it would have been more fun if we were later able to view and edit footage on a computer. Just saying.

Well, I bought a replacement charger on ebay--that was my contribution.

Would really like the opportunity to take some film classes--maybe find out what would be a good first camera for an aspiring filmmaker to purchase. And also find out what a boom mike does. But I'm never NEVER EVER going to get a Mac. I'm a pc and have no idea how to edit a film...hahahaha.

But we do have a rough outline and gumption. Huzzah

It's been a while...

So, it's been a while since I've posted, but I'm going to try to make this more of a daily or every other day kind of practice.

Am super psyched to play oboe in the pit for Oliver. Also English Horn. I played through the score last night and it felt so satisfying to get my fingers wiggling again. I bought a brand-new medium-hard reed from Joe's Island Music and it played beautifully. When I play the oboe, the rest of the world goes away. There's just me and the music. Amazing.

My friend Max and I are planning on doing a parody of Between Two Ferns called On Two Bamboo Chairs. I will interview local community theatre actors. Think it will be pretty sweet!

Am currently working on directing a staged reading of scenes from To Kill a Mockingbird for a Sno-Isle Libraries Foundation Board benefit on October 16. Jimmy Scullin is playing Atticus and Sophia Larsen-Wickman is playing Scout. Fabulous rehearsals so far.

That's all for now!

Concertina

The Baker from Into the Woods
is practicing parallel parking
in front of the rug store
(in a car marked "student driver")
I follow behind Little Read and the Witch
(from the jr. version)
and in we go.
Beautiful beads, tantalizing tapastries
and a few varied intruments--
I pause by a concertina,
but upon looking at the price tag
I breeze on by.
Making the rounds of the store
I find myself pulled back
to the concertina--
the owner tells me to touch it,
try it out.
The leather straps are too big
for my hands but I put
my small mitts through
and it sings. Italian concertina
made in Russia, bought in Uzbekistan--
now named Adolpho,
and she is mine.

Bowling in Jumpers--a poem for Reina

I didn't like the production of As You Like It.
It was mediocre.
The wrestler was played by an overweight
actress sporting spandex and a horrible hick accent.
I think she had alligator makeup on as well.

But after, we went bowling in jumpers.
Reina and I had gone to a Goodwill in La Crosse
and picked out two coduroy beauties
with printed cotton turtlenecks to go underneath.
Our ensembles were both ten dollars or less.

You cannot answer the why of bowling in jumpers.

It is and was spontaniety, glee, originality and
and ache for childhood all wrapped into one
beautiful night in southwestern Wisconsin.

a baby

suspends

her crying

for a

moment

to acknowledge

one of

her purple

socks has

fallen off.

then she

resumes:

a primal

wail

stemming

from a

need to

be held.

and for a moment,

i am useful,

though far from

maternal.

monologue from a piece yet to be written

So, when Ann Druyan was falling in love with Carl Sagan, I mean the Carl Sagan, she went to a laboratory and recorded her brainwaves and heartbeat. And that data was turned into sound. And that sound was part of the data that was put on the Voyager Golden Record by Carl Sagan and shot out into space, that reads "the sounds of earth." Isn't that out there, even for Carl Sagan? To me, falling in love is one of the most unscientific things in human life. You can have "a feeling in your bones" or your gut, a lump in your throat, your heart can melt or be fluttering like a hummingbird outside your ribcage and the culminations of all these sensations is generally thought of as "chemistry" between two people. But what causes it? I mean, what really makes two people fall in love. Or, perhaps more importantly, what makes one person fall in love while the object of their affections wants no part of it? Sounds like an unbalanced formula to me. Anyway, Carl Sagan launches this golden record out into space, and it's intended for aliens or future humans to discover. And possibly try attempt communication with us. There are 55 languages, sounds of earth like elephants, trains, and laughter, music from around the world. And finally, Ann Druyan's brainwaves. The physiology of love. I can just picture the aliens listening to those brainwaves and scratching their heads? "What is this?" they'll say. And then set to work decoding, quantifying one of the greatest mysteries of human existence.

Easter

Easter Bunny didn't come by this year
and it kind of pissed me off.

I wanted to wake up
and go egg-hunting,
gorging myself on the spoils:
Cadbury, Reese's, and Starburst Jellybeans.

Guess you can't count on rabbits.
Some are always running late
for important dates.

Others get in trouble in
the gardens of Scottish men.

And still others escape from
county fairs
and wander the islands
in the Northwest.

Because of the inconsistency of rabbits,
I've resigned myself to the fact
that I may just have go to the store tomorrow,
buy some half-priced candy,
and hide it myself.

On my drive south from Oak Harbor

I muse about the similarities between Whidbey

and the Midwest

I see WI stickers all the time and my heart

jumps

thinking "Oh, Wisconsin!"

then I realize Whidbey Island has the same initials

(the same mistake could be made with Oak Harbor and OHio...)

I see the pastures just north of Coupeville

with cows standing and sitting

(which one means it's going to rain?)

I am transported to Iowa and Minnesota

America's heartland

my heartland

and channeling Kilgore Trout,

I continue on my drive, thinking,

"If this isn't nice, what is?"

poem for max's b-day

if you drive far enough on Bayview Rd
(heading west)
it turns into Ewing Rd
and farmland (with cows)
I felt transported back to the midwest
(and Iowa)
and if you go far
far enough
there is a dilapidated (old, white) farmhouse
beauty in its decay

I think of you
when things are simultaneously
beautiful and ugly
wonderful and terrible

[whenever I flip over the coin
to see the other side]
heads or tails,
chances are
there's a hell of a
universe next door
to murder or create
(and hear the mermaids singing)


Let's go.

Trying to be Amelie...

When my best friend growing up, Julia, and I saw the movie Amelie, I think we were in high school. She recently reminded me that we had the intention of doing random acts of kindness to strangers, like leaving notes in people's lockers that said "you're awesome." We even bought a journal to log our exploits. But it never really took off. We had the right intentions but didn't follow through.

"Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's."

I was thinking lately about my high school and college selves, respectively, and how I wish I could travel back in time and shake them very hard and say "Stop worrying about what other people think of you. And stop wasting time on boys--it's really not worth it." But I seriously doubt my advice from the future would resonate.

I once had a friend who said something along the lines of "I hope that someday you will be able to live your life free of men and applause." At the time, this comment stung, but I think perhaps I have enough perspective now to appreciate it somewhat.

After all, it is better to help people than garden gnomes...

What do you do with a B.A....?

I was thinking about this the other day...there must be a ton of slightly subversive female 20-somethings from the Midwest who have graduated with their B.A.s in Theatre/Dance or Women's Studies or Ethnomusicology because they wanted to study what they really loved instead of being safe and studying to be a teacher like their families said they should. There is a gap between being a college co-ed and becoming Bridget Jones and I want to hear from this population because I consider myself one of them...

I've referenced the word "quirkyalone" before, and while I still identify with it, I'm not sure if it truly defines me. I think there needs to be another word...and dagnabbit, that might just be what I set my mind to doing this week...

We were going to change the world in college and now we're working mundane jobs to pay the rent. It's not that we've lost our idealism entirely...it's just not as easy to change the world when you're not in the petri dish of a liberal arts college setting with hundreds of other people with similar backgrounds and aspirations...

I'm the first to admit that I'm addicted to FaceBook--I can spend hours checking in on friends from high school and college and seeing what they're up to. Many are married and starting families...some are in grad school or even Ph.D. programs...and I fell a bit as though I'm in limbo...

Am very excited to get the new production company off the ground and create my own new artistic reality. It's grounding to be collaborating with people who are a bit older than me and have a different educational background...

So maybe that's what you do with a B.A. from a liberal arts school in northeastern Iowa...create your own reality....

Valentine's Poem for My Most Exhalted

My father is my favorite valentine.
(He never forgets--even when I do)

And when I find myself
lounging on the couch,
glass of wine in hand,
watching both Bridget Jones'
in rapid sucession,
I am reminded of my favorite valentine.

The one who never forgets,

the man who still holds
the largest piece of my heart.

Uncommon Characters

So, my friend Bristol and I are starting our own production company called Uncommon Characters. The website will be up at www.uncommoncharacters.com shortly...It's a very exciting endeavor and I can't wait to be official and stuff...look for further updates, coming soon!




Poem:



jude law throwing oranges



i know that jude law throws oranges. at
unsuspecting nyu first-year girls in the dorms
(their dorms face his apartment)
and he throws oranges at them
so that they'll stop waving

i know that natalie portman elbows people
inthestomach while waiting in line
for toastedcheeseandtomatosandwiches
at the university of jerusalem
i have it firsthand from my first boyfriend
(now an ex)

what is it with celebrities and violence surrounding food?

perhaps they use it
as a weapon
because they are denied
anythingthatpossibly
could taste good.

For Ophelia

Once upon a time there lived two households both alike in dignity universally acknowledging the truth that we live in the land of sunroofs and low-rise jeans. We descend into downward dog on our yoga mats, undulate between cat and cow, then take a moment to stroke our freshly waxed brows.

I am sick of to-do lists because I substitute "do" for "be" and "act" for "am."

and maybe Ophelia had it right after all--drowning herself in a shallow pond after debuting a brief and tragic singing career. Just crucify her somewhere between Ambercrombie and Fitch: after a while she'll become emaciated enough to fit into their clothing.

I watch movies where neurotic characters with perfect skin embrace (tenatively at first, then the invevitable crescendo...) I watch these scenes over and over because I long for that fabricated intimacy in my own life. (But what is intimate about creating a scene like that, surrounded by balding fat men in their short sleeves, eating donuts and holding microphones?)

When does it end? Where is the place with no questions?

I grow old.
I grow ild.
With many stories to be told.
Big loves.
Small loves.

IV.V. (Act Four, Scene Five)

I hope all will be will. We must be patient, but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Exit Ophelia.

Sitting in seat A 108, my fingers tightly interlaced, I worry about how convincing my performance as an audience memeber is.

I does matter who you sit by at the theatre, in the concert hall.

This time, after the ball Cinderelle unzips her tafetta ballgown and leaves that instead of the glass slipper.

You can see her dancing naked, stark raving sane, with mice and pumpkin at midnight.

And that happier incarnation, sweet prince--she's the one.

Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, goodnight.

Goodnight.

The 8th Grade Dance vs. Junior Prom...

(That's me in the back with the silver shirt doing what appears to be a veloca-raptor impersonation. Oh, so awkward...)

As promised, here is the tale of my procurement of a date for the 8th grade dance:





I was determined to go with my friend Jerome, whose mother was my social studies teacher. I wasn't really nervous when I asked him, because I thought he would say yes. Instead, he said, "Can I think about it?" And came back a couple days later with "I'd like to go with someone else but if you can't find anyone else to go with, I'll go with you." Kudos for diplomacy. I didn't want a pity date, so I reassessed my options. Turns out my friend Alex had asked my friend Veronica (who also went to my church) but she said no because she wanted to ask my other friend, Chris, (who also also went to my church.) So Alex's friends and my friends got together and chatted. The verdict was passed down that if I asked Alex, he would say yes. So I did and he did.





The dance was nice enough. I wore an emerald green dress with a built-in choker that I got a thrift store. There are a series of awkward snapshots somewhere of the two of us standing in my front yard--Alex in khakis, short sleeve dress shirt and oddly highlighted hair, me in the dress with a hideous fake pearl headband, glasses and braces. And of course I was taller.





We get to the dance and I honestly don't remember much of what happened, only that Alex danced a whole bunch with another girl named Missy who was shorter than he was and sans glasses and braces. Sigh.





Seems ideal to partner this story with that of my junior prom. I was determined to have a date for my junior prom. My mom and I went dress shopping at the mall, not a thrift store as we did in 8th grade. I got a beautiful flamingo pink beaded dress with a lace-up back. Now all I had to do was get a date. I ended up asking six different guys...the first five all said no in one way or another. One of them framed his rejection in a philisophical sense, saying that if he did decided to go to something as silly as prom, he would prefer to ask a random girl on the street. Finally, I found an acquaintance who was willing to go with me (because he was a sophomore and couldn't go otherwise.) It was agreed upon that I would buy the tickets and he would buy dinner.





He picked me up in his 1980 something grey Buick, decked out in a tux. We went to Mountain Jack's steakhouse and had virgin daquaris. As our dinner came to a close, he decided to hit the men's room on the way out. He came out with a funny look on his face.





"What's wrong?" I said.





"I'll tell you in the car." He replied.





"So, when guys go to the bathroom, there are the urinals, you know? And usually, you don't strike up a conversation, you just pee. But this older guy was standing next to me and started chatting. Asked me where I was going, since I was so dressed up. And I told him I was going to prom and he asked me if I had a hot date...I didn't really know how to answer that..."





We rode in silence the rest of the trip. I was a bit miffed. When we arrived, he broke off and hung out with his sophomore girlfriends who were the dates of upper classmen. But he did wander back and danced several songs with me.





The after party was at the local bowling alley. There were many door prizes. I won a stuffed Mr. Peanut, and I think he won a gift certificate to a movie theatre. The night was not especially romantic, but I had attended my junior prom largely unscathed and with a male escort.

I guess neither of these stories are particularly scarring, but the collective effect of pursuit and rejection that has characterized most of my romantic efforts has left me a bit jaded. I am reminded of High Fidelity, when John Cusack's character talks about making out with his first girlfriend on a bench afterschool for three days in a row, but being usurped by a fellow classmate on the fourth day: "It would be nice to think that since I was 14, times have changed. Relationships have become more sophisticated. Females less cruel. Skins thicker. Instincts more developed. But there seems to be an element of that afternoon in everything that's happened to me since. All my romantic stories are a scrambled version of that first one."

I don't want to be jaded. And I'm not some Midwestern version of Bridget Jones. By writing these stories down and reflecting on them, I hope I'm able to move past the bullshit and on to bigger and better relationships. Cheers.

Harriet Tubman and Valentine's Day...

I find myself with a new haircut and an urge to write...as I regaled Sam and Bill at Nymbol's Secret Garden with horror stories from crushes past, I came to realize that, for the most part, there is enough distance so that many of the once crushing (pun intended) stories have become humorous. So I thought I might share a few...I guess I will change the names to protect the innocent...perhaps.

Before I delve into my past humorous humiliations concerning encounters with the opposite sex, I'd like to say that up until the 2nd grade, I was doing alright. I had a boyfriend that I held hands with in pre-school (his name was Lars) and my five year old self was sure that I had nothing to worry about when it came to dating. Ha.

Since Valentine's Day is on the horizon, I'll share this jewel from 5th grade. I had a massive crush on a young fellow named Brendan. I knew I was madly in love with him (as only a geeky fifth-grade girl can be) ever since we played the leads in the 5th grade play. It depicted the life and times of Harriet Tubman and since we were all white kids, the teacher opted, out of necessity, to go for gender-blind casting. Yes, everyone, I played Harriet Tubman. Which is wrong on oh-so-many levels. I know that now. But my 5th grade self was ready for the challenge of playing this part. I thought it had been written for me. This was going to be my big break...

Brendan played my abusive husband. I am afraid that this started what has become a life-long pattern and hazard as an actress: becoming infatuated with my leading men who tend to ignore me in real life. Brendan was tall, dark and handsome (for a fifth-grader) and I was sure that our showmance was going to be one for the history books.

The performances left a bit to be desired. Scratch that. The performance. Singular. (Thankfully.) It took place in the Maywood Elementary School cafetorium. Our audience was the other three fifth grade classes. The show began with the entire cast singing Wade in the Water. I vaguely remember the first scene with dialogue being in the Tubman kitchen, because I threw a handful of dry oatmeal into my husband's face in anger and it all landed on our classmate who was playing our dog. I'm pretty sure I burst out laughing and found it hard to regain my character for the rest of the show.

So Valentine's Day rolls around and I'm determined to do something so perfect that Brendan will be forever mine. I decide to sew a small felt heart pillow stuffed with cotton balls. I sneak in during lunch and place it in his Valentine bag. No note. I'm sure that he'll know I sent it to him.

The pillow causes quite a stir, because he has NO idea who sent it to him. I only tell my friend Rosie that it was me and make her pinkie swear not to tell a single soul. Unfortunately, Rosie's a loudmouth and goes straight to Brendan and tells him. He gives me the nickname "the bad sewer" (or sore, depending how you pronounce it). My ten year old self is crushed and can't understand how he found out because of course Rosie wouldn't have told him. I tried to consider the nickname as endearing, but it didn't quite work...

Join us next post, when I tell of the drama surrounding procuring a date for the 8th grade dance...

Dess...trap...

A Dutch accent is hard. Super hard. Killer, actually. I recently got cast in Deathtrap, which opens at WICA on February 12. I play Helga ten Dorp, Dutch psychic.


In order to prepare for this role, I watched the movie with Michael Caine and Christopher Reeves. Also, Austin Powers in Goldmember. (Please note that Michael Caine is in both films. Coincidence? I think not.)


Chris Fisher directs this stellar cast: Ed Cornachio, Shelley Hartle, Sean Brennan and Phil Jordan.


Ed was my scene partner for the first show I ever was in at WICA: The Good Doctor. I got to scream at him, beat him and jump on his desk in that play. And stab some potatoes with his pen. This play, there's a desk in almost the same position onstage, but I don't get to climp atop it. I do get to scream a bit, but it's not him upon which I inflict physical violence...Deathtrap is great fun and will keep audiences guessing til the very end. Come and see...

This isn't the secret garden you're thinkin' of...

If you haven't met Nymbolnuts Cass, you should be ashamed of yourself.


Located on first street in Langley, Nymbol's Secret Garden overlooks the waterfront. Part design studio, part retail, simply put, this place is awesome! Think Midsummer Night's Dream reimagined by Tim Burton.

Etheral leather masks line the tables and walls, as well as jewelry and fairie wings. (Go ahead. Try a pair on. You know you wanna :-) )

You might see Izzy and Tabitha (8 and almost 11, respectively) hard at work on a puppet, drawing or fairie house. Sam might be behind the desk or tidying up. And Bill is probably hard at work on the computer.

And then there's Nymbol...who you have to meet for yourself.


Stop by, check it out, meet Nymbol, make a mask, have a birthday party, go home happy :-)

Little Suzy Tried to Milk a Cow

I had the chance to take an adventure over to America last night and it was fantastic! My friend Andrea and I parked by Pike Place Market and walked to Belltown to dine at Wasabi. There were no tables available, so we had to shimmy up to a little granite island where there were already 5 people seated and only one vacant stool. One of the guys sitting next to us gave up his stool in an act of chivalry. We happened to be seated by a great guy, Adam, who works at a wine shop in Kirkland and gave us an extensive and informative lecture about different kinds of sake. He even bought everyone at the granite island a bottle to share.

After awhile, two seats opened up at the bar. Our food was fantastic; we shared the spicy tuna roll and the rainbow roll. )Kudos to Dawn for introducing me to sushi while I was Arizona this fall :-) ) Looking up at the ornately lighted bottles of liquor that lined the wall, I was struck by how the labels on some bottles evoke memories stronger than the scent of grandma's sugar cookies baking in the oven. I find it hard to look at a bottle of Midori, while Belvidere vodka has a fond place in my heart (try swapping stories with friend the next time you're sitting at the bar.)

Next, we trekked back to Post Alley and grabbed spanish coffees at the Alibi Room. The gum wall across the street was a bit much for me, but it framed our final destination of the evening: Theatresports.

Now, when I was in middle school, I was in an after-school group called The Hysterical Society (get it? Historical/Hysterical...tee-hee). We would meet once a week and play improv games. And although I have acted in many plays since middle school, they have, for the most part, been scripted.

The teams that were competing at Theatresports were "Back for the 4th Straight Week" and "Knuckle Manwich." About 30 minutes into the first half of the show, they decision was handed down that both teams needed to play games involving an audience member. Many hands went up, but I was chosen, even though I was in the back row.

My appearance got off to a rocky start. The team leader of Back for the 4th Straight Week asked me if I had ever seen a pop-up storybook. Now, of course I know what a pop-up storybook is, but I had become so nervous at the thought of (gulp) improvising in front of a hundred people that I thought he meant had I ever seen this particular game played and said "No."

"Um, you mean you never had a pop-up storybook as a kid?"

"Oh, well, YEAH, I know what a pop-up storybook is, but I thought, uh, um, that you were talking about if I'd ever seen this game before, but no, yeah, I totally know what a pop-up storybook is and have seen one before as a child."

(raucous audience laughter at Katie's awkwardness)

"Hmm..yeah, you're doing great" said the team leader dubiously, hestitantly gave me a thumbs up and went on to explain the game.

Basically, whenever the narrator turns the page, the actors onstage strike a new pose in the pop-up storybook that he then has to justify to drive the narrative forward.

"Can I get a suggestion of a title of a pop-up storybook from the audience?"

"Little Suzy Tried to Milk a Cow!"

And we began. It so happened that I ended up being Little Suzy. Luckily, Little Suzy was pretty nervous that she had just turned nine and had to learn how to milk a cow. She got down on her little-girl knees in udder-yanking position to find out that the cow she was trying to milk was actually a bull. What was Little Suzy to do?

Channeling my inner Sarah Palin, my last pose of the game showed me brandishing a rifle. That's right folks, Little Suzy may not know how to milk a cow, but she can sure shoot! And I think she can see Russia if she squints from the porch of her Iowa farmhouse...

quirkyalone and Beyond Therapy

The other day I was perusing the 300s section of the Langley library and stumbled upon the book: "quirkyalone: a manifesto for uncompromising romantics." I was intrigued and added it to the stack of books and dvds I was checking out.

Little did I know that I was on my way to discovering the first pop culture label with which I strongly identified.

www.quickyalone.net defines "quirkyalone" as:

"Quirkyalones are people who enjoy being single (but are not opposed to being in a relationship) and prefer being single to dating for the sake of being in a relationship."

International Quirkyalone Day is February 14. The official flower is daisies.

62% of quirkyalones are female, 67% don't have pets, and 47% are between the ages of 26-45.

We're not exactly talking anti-Bridget Jones here, but there is an element of that. Give this book a try.

The book made me think about Christopher Durang's play, Beyond Therapy. Durang is one of my favorite playwrights and directing this play was one of the highlights of my undergraduate experience. The official name of my senior project was "Beyond Therapy: Beyond Social Constructions of Gender and Sexuality." (I tied in articles from the God and Gender class I had taken as a religion general studies requirement into scene study with my actors).

I cast some of my closest friends in the show and the rehearsal process was a blast. I tried to say yes to as many requests as I could, my favorite being Justin asking if we could bring an adult-sized rocking horse down as a set piece in one of the therapist's offices. By closing night of the show, the house was packed; we were bringing out suitcases from props storage for people to sit on.

Charlotte the crazy therapist says "Prudence, you're searching for perfection. You know that song, 'Someday My Prince Will Come?' Well it's shit. There is no prince. Everyone in this world is limited, and depending on one's perspective, is either horrible or okay. We're all alone, everyone's crazy, and you have no choice but to be alone or to be with someone in what will be a highly imperfect and probably eventually unsatisfactory relationship." She then goes on to describe how life is like Chekhov--everyone thinks it's a tragedy or drama, but actually, life at its core is truly comedic. "If you take psychological suffering in the right frame of mind, you can find the humor in it."

I don't know if this play expresses mostly pro or anti-quirkyalone sentiments. I'm new to this label, but so far it fits...

Poems for a Rainy Day

I have been going through some of my old journals and finding some poetry, so I thought I would share some vintage words of Woodzick:

Rules for Dancing:

My father never danced

so in turn

My mother never danced

so in turn

I never danced

until

I found college

and college found you.

And in those four years

we have choreographed

a dance of sprawling symbiosis...

Our fathers

the soldier and the scientist

gaze on, disinterested

While our mothers

Midwestern and beaming

wish they could join

the dance.

untitled

I have a poem for you

(I have a poem for you)

It's either an obstruction

or an abstraction

you can decide which.

You said with friends

"the good ones stick around"

But I'm leaving on a jet

plane, because baby there are

some mountains high enough &

I'm not a rubber ball bouncing

back to...

The lyrics aren't working:

let's try literature.

I am Helen & my

face and mind have launched

thousands of ideas, dances,

songs, plays and characters...

these ideas will send me to

the far reaches of

this current plane of

consciousness.

I may come back to visit:

the odd play a wedding

(late night bonfires in northeast

Iowa are not to be missed...

I got the notebook that now contains these poems while in London at the Tate Modern...It has an image of John Singer Sargents' Carnation, Lily, Rose. The way my undergraduate schedule was set up, we had a semester, a 3-week J-term course, then another semester. So, my senior year, I decided to go to England for Plays, Players and Playhouses with the Theatre/Dance Department.

We started in Stratford, seeing shows at the Royal Shakespeare Company: Great Expectations and two nights of the Canterbury Tales. The great thing about the literature cirriculum in Enlgand is that the theatres tap into it, so the schools can go see adaptations of great works that the students are reading in class.

Next, we went to London, saw shows at the National Theatre: History Boys, Paul, Once in a Lifetime. There are three different theatres housed in the National, all very different venues. I saw an actor from History Boys the night after we saw the play. It was at a little deli by the theatre. I went up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and told him how much I liked his performance. He said, "Oh, you're from America?" And I suddenly became very incoherent, muttering something about being from the Midwest with cows. Sigh.

We went to the reconstructed Globe theatre and got a tour from an actor in the company. I actually got to stand on the stage and recite Shakespeare--one of my favorite memories.

One of the most stunning aspects of the reconstructed Globe, in my opinion, is the painting called "The Heavens" that rests right above Juliet's balcony (see above). I was so haunted my the image, I actually used it at the end of the production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead I directed at Whidbey Island Center for the Arts. The weather today reminds me of London a bit. Glad to have the notebook from Tate Modern to delve into memories past...

Whaddya Know?

Does anyone remember this show? Growing up near Madison, Wisconsin, Michael Feldman's Whaddya Know? was a staple of Saturday mornings (right before Prairie Home Companion). It was a quiz show recorded mostly in Madison (although the show did travel) and when I was 13, they had a contest called "Whaddya Know, The Next Generation." I knew that this was my calling. I recorded an audition tape, crosslegged on my bed, singing "I Enjoy Being a Girl" as well as declaring that "you should let me be the announcer because I could do this job better than any man."

Of course, they played the second part on national radio, after which Feldman quipped, "I guess they're starting to teach feminism in middle school now."

I won the contest, along with three other teenagers, and got to act as the announcer for the second half of a live show. Above is a particularly embarassing picture of me complete with glasses, braces, unruly hair, a homemade tie-dye seafoam green t-shirt, gray blazer, and dragon bell bottoms. Oh, and of course a novelty tie made out of fake cheese. At least I've finally grown out of that awkward phase...sigh...

I don't remember being particularly nervous--all of my stuff was written down--I didn't have to do stand-up like the new young host, Noah Putterman. Our repore wasn't as good as Michael and Jim Packard's, but I still think we did alright. I remember my mom had to correct me at home so I didn't stay Studs TerKEL on national radio.

I ended up with a fair amount of public radio bling. The Bocca Burger Barbeque Bundle (which is how I found out I dislike Bocca Burgers), a Feldman cd and book, and some other various posters and memorabilia.

I was sure it was the first stop on my way to international fame and stardom. I had just spent the past seven years in speech therapy getting rid of a heavy lisp and as soon as the braces were off, I obviously going to be ready for Hollywood. Would the move to Hollywood be hard on my parents? Of course, but they would get over it as soon as they didn't have to deal with the rough Midwestern winters. My mother would be too busy meeting with Gloria Steinem and other feminists, talking about my potential. And my dad would find a job as a consultant on disaster movies (a Ph.D. in Geology had to be good for something).

We would live in a modest mansion, say, 5 bedrooms and a guest house. Small pool, a cook, a driver and a maid, you know, just the basics...

Hmmm....my life may not have turned out exactly as my 13-year old self would have liked, but I hope that on some level I have not dissatisfied her completely. I was listening to Terry Gross interview Russell Brand and Quentin Tarantino (not at the same time) and was struck by how down to earth and intelligent both these gentlemen were. While at the same time being devious and a bit "off." It made me think about what they were like at 13. If they had the same aspirations of stardom as I did. If they had any idea how famous they would become. What it would be like if all our 13-year old selves would get along, collaborated on a home movie...ah, me...

cummings, the Cole-Takanikos Clan, and hipsters...

hipsters?



e.e. cummings has always been one of my favorite poets. I believe his poem, since feeling is first, is the first poem I ever memorized (pleased to report I can still recite it):




since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never fully wholly kiss you;


wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world


my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis



cummings comes in an out of my life--there was a collaborative performance project that I did my senior year of college which featured the following:



i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing the this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new




And then, today, another visit: at Joni Takanikos' concert at Mukilteo Coffee Roasters this afternoon, my friend and theatre-viewing partner Max read some cummings from 95 poems (everyone needs to have this book--even if you only own one book of poetry, this needs to be it) The whole Cole-Takanikos clan is insanely talented--if you ever get a chance to hear Joni sing or Max or Barton act--you need to go...seriously...


All of Max's selections were fabulous, but my favorite was the last, # 30, which goes like this:



what Got him was Noth
ing & nothings' exAct
ly what any one Living
(or some
body
Dead like even a Poet) could
hardly express what
i Mean is
what knocked him over Wasn't
(for instance) the Knowing your

whole (yes god

damned) life is a Flop or even
to
Feel how
Everything(dreamed
& hoped &
prayed for
months & weeks & days & years
& nights &
forever) is Less Than
Nothing(which would have been
Something) what got him was nothing



Which brings us to hipsters. Does liking e.e. cummings automatically put one in the "hipster" category? It probably doesn't hurt...Merriam-Webster defines "hipster" as " a person who is unusually aware of an interested in new and unconventional patterns (as in jazz or fashion)."


Urban Dictionary has 156 definitions. Among my favorite are:


(1.)

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR. Which is usually.
I am not a f-ing hipster! (sweeps bangs to side dramatically and takes a swig of PBR)


(2.)

You, for reading ironic, pseudo-intellectual dictionary entries on the word "hipster".

"These dictionary entries on hipsters are so comical! I'm going to email this link to 800 of my closest acquaintances, head to Value Village, grab a chai and then play kickball in a headband and short-shorts."

(7.)

One who possesses tastes, social attitudes, and opinions deemed cool by the cool. (Note: it is no longer recommended that one use the term "cool"; a Hipster would instead say "deck.") The Hipster walks among the masses in daily life but is not a part of them and shuns or reduces to kitsch anything held dear by the mainstream. A Hipster ideally possesses no more than 2% body fat. -The Hipster Handbook, Robert Lanham

Typically a Hipster can be identified by vintage or thrift-store bought clothing, a taste for obscure or underground music, a penchant for irony and an elitist attitude.

(148.)

a rare breed of animal usually spotted at the blackcat in DC (not on nights of popular shows, but rather on nights with a no name band that most likely sucks). current hipster trends include (but are not limited to) trucker caps, dyed black hair, zelda haircuts for girls, vintage clothing, black frame glasses, a "hipster" jacket, pair of black chuck taylors, etc.

dude 1: yo, let's go down to the blackcat to see deathcab.
dude 2: no way, i hate them.
dude 1: you liked them last week!! you're getting too hipster. i hate you.
dude 2: don't hate.


With that, I'll sign off. And remember, don't hate....