10 November, 2003
07 November, 2003
Thursday, Week Four
And how could it possibly be, in the face of a cold cruel world, where hundreds of thousands suffer daily, that I should enjoy such good fortune? Despite the desolation of my Tuesday, and the difficulty of my Wednesday, on Wednesday night, after stories, my children, bless their adorable, godswollen, lovefired hearts, covered me with my favorite blanket, the one inscribed with love messages from 1999's Once Upon A Mattress cast, put the dog in his room, kissed me, turned out the lights, and took themseles off to bed.
When Scotty arrived a bit early, how is it he did not make fun or even smile at helping me to fasten my bra? How is it I am lucky enough to have a friend I adore, who married a husband I adore, who is such good, quiet, friendly, funny company?
And my employer for a mere two years, who loves me with a passion and devotion that rightfully ought to be reserved for family, how do I find myself adorned with her care, given to me, given freely, by her puresouled nature? Lisa Dabbs, one of the most amazing humans it has been my priviledge to meet, to know, to share stories and wisdom, how stupifying that here am I grateful, GRATEFUL to be in need of her touch, simply in order to bask in the glow of her internal light.
Back again to Scotty, who made me feel as though I had done him great favors by paying for lunch at the Chinese buffet, when it was his sweetness that brought me there, where he filled my plate three times, who took me next door to buy thank you notes, knowing that it was important to me, helping me pick nice ones that expressed my feelings and my personality, how delightful to have in my life someone not married to me who expresses such tender care of my wishes.
Oh, but his wife, his wife, who allowed herself to be quoted, quoted for publication, as saying something about me that was almost- but not quite- completely out of character, which was this: "She is a wonderful, creative, artistic person and the best friend anyone could have. I will do anything I can to ease her suffering and worry." Ditto, Mrs. Crowe. Ditto.
Last week, it was Ruthie, who drove me around on Halloween Day to Wal-Mart and Dollar Stores to buy front-clasp bras and sundries, so cheerful and such a delight to be around, never allowing me or my children to feel burdensome.
Though I never cared for Barbara Streisand, I begin to understand the lyric, "people who need people/ are the luckiest people/ in the world.
Mmmm, Babs... you may be onto something, babe. You really may.
In many ways, this has been a wonderful learning experience. I will never be the same, in a GOOD way. I needed to learn balance in my life, not just when performing. Amazing how such a perfect dramatic physical metaphor should serve as the implement of my deconstruction.
And how could it possibly be, in the face of a cold cruel world, where hundreds of thousands suffer daily, that I should enjoy such good fortune? Despite the desolation of my Tuesday, and the difficulty of my Wednesday, on Wednesday night, after stories, my children, bless their adorable, godswollen, lovefired hearts, covered me with my favorite blanket, the one inscribed with love messages from 1999's Once Upon A Mattress cast, put the dog in his room, kissed me, turned out the lights, and took themseles off to bed.
When Scotty arrived a bit early, how is it he did not make fun or even smile at helping me to fasten my bra? How is it I am lucky enough to have a friend I adore, who married a husband I adore, who is such good, quiet, friendly, funny company?
And my employer for a mere two years, who loves me with a passion and devotion that rightfully ought to be reserved for family, how do I find myself adorned with her care, given to me, given freely, by her puresouled nature? Lisa Dabbs, one of the most amazing humans it has been my priviledge to meet, to know, to share stories and wisdom, how stupifying that here am I grateful, GRATEFUL to be in need of her touch, simply in order to bask in the glow of her internal light.
Back again to Scotty, who made me feel as though I had done him great favors by paying for lunch at the Chinese buffet, when it was his sweetness that brought me there, where he filled my plate three times, who took me next door to buy thank you notes, knowing that it was important to me, helping me pick nice ones that expressed my feelings and my personality, how delightful to have in my life someone not married to me who expresses such tender care of my wishes.
Oh, but his wife, his wife, who allowed herself to be quoted, quoted for publication, as saying something about me that was almost- but not quite- completely out of character, which was this: "She is a wonderful, creative, artistic person and the best friend anyone could have. I will do anything I can to ease her suffering and worry." Ditto, Mrs. Crowe. Ditto.
Last week, it was Ruthie, who drove me around on Halloween Day to Wal-Mart and Dollar Stores to buy front-clasp bras and sundries, so cheerful and such a delight to be around, never allowing me or my children to feel burdensome.
Though I never cared for Barbara Streisand, I begin to understand the lyric, "people who need people/ are the luckiest people/ in the world.
Mmmm, Babs... you may be onto something, babe. You really may.
In many ways, this has been a wonderful learning experience. I will never be the same, in a GOOD way. I needed to learn balance in my life, not just when performing. Amazing how such a perfect dramatic physical metaphor should serve as the implement of my deconstruction.
05 November, 2003
Sage Advice?
Tips for StarPixie, a young performer who got harrassed over Halloween weekend by some teen boys who wanted to mess with the little girl mime. Oddly, in all her performances bellydancing, she never had a problem. She puts on gloves and makeup, boom, she's got trouble.
S-
there are a bunch of things you can do to "make yourself bigger." (excuse my lack of caps; i was injured and type one-handed for awhile now)
first off, scot is right: the more you think of yourself as small and vulnerable, the more you will be.
second, never underestimate the power of a dirty look.
find your "safe" spots before getting really into a gig, so you know right off where to go, ie, the security station, the large friendly guy working the dunking booth, a police officer, another, larger, performer, the women's bathroom, etc.
go easy on the coy come hither stuff with those who are saturated by hormones or alcohol, or, god forbid, both. instead, square your shoulders, chest out, chin up, and meet their gaze straight on with a "no bullshit" message in your eyes. full professionalism.
build up your "personal bubble" to about two to two and a half feet. carry this with you at all times. it's fine to invite people in closer if you want to, but that's at your discretion, not theirs.
i have used my knees, applied with some force, as a method of self-defense. not often, and i'm not proud of having allowed the situation to deteriorate far enough that physicality became necessary, but it was effective.
refuse to play the game. let them have the hat, or the prop, or pick you up, whatever, because an angry struggling mime is amusing to bullies. a limp, annoyed one is just a burden. you will gain knowlege of when to use this tactic as you gain street experience. i once had a patron pick me up and carry me away at the ren fest. i just waited until he got tired of carrying me and put me down. then i gave him a dirty look, brushed myself off, and went about my business. i have lost a couple of props this way, but proportionately, very few, and never my favorite ones. standing patiently, unmoving, hand out, will often force the return of an item, also.
i hope this is helpful. good luck, sweetie!
xox
S-
there are a bunch of things you can do to "make yourself bigger." (excuse my lack of caps; i was injured and type one-handed for awhile now)
first off, scot is right: the more you think of yourself as small and vulnerable, the more you will be.
second, never underestimate the power of a dirty look.
find your "safe" spots before getting really into a gig, so you know right off where to go, ie, the security station, the large friendly guy working the dunking booth, a police officer, another, larger, performer, the women's bathroom, etc.
go easy on the coy come hither stuff with those who are saturated by hormones or alcohol, or, god forbid, both. instead, square your shoulders, chest out, chin up, and meet their gaze straight on with a "no bullshit" message in your eyes. full professionalism.
build up your "personal bubble" to about two to two and a half feet. carry this with you at all times. it's fine to invite people in closer if you want to, but that's at your discretion, not theirs.
i have used my knees, applied with some force, as a method of self-defense. not often, and i'm not proud of having allowed the situation to deteriorate far enough that physicality became necessary, but it was effective.
refuse to play the game. let them have the hat, or the prop, or pick you up, whatever, because an angry struggling mime is amusing to bullies. a limp, annoyed one is just a burden. you will gain knowlege of when to use this tactic as you gain street experience. i once had a patron pick me up and carry me away at the ren fest. i just waited until he got tired of carrying me and put me down. then i gave him a dirty look, brushed myself off, and went about my business. i have lost a couple of props this way, but proportionately, very few, and never my favorite ones. standing patiently, unmoving, hand out, will often force the return of an item, also.
i hope this is helpful. good luck, sweetie!
xox
Wednesday, Fourth
Wednesday, Week Four
A mist like opalescent luminous paint winds itself around the leaves and vines and trees and flowers that meander, brilliant and untamed, across the wild patch I term "yard".
Yesterday was Tuesday, and since my flying adventure, I've noticed I have trouble with Tuesdays. I woke sweating from a dream of abandonment this morning, delighted to find it was Wednesday. Wednesday generally means a trip to Rob Breszny's site for a look at my horoscope, but this morning it was less inspiring than usual. However, I found an article on the front page, about Harmonic Convergence, exquisitely fascinating.
A literary site I'm fond of, Lit.org, has been captivating me these last couple of days. Why is it when I'm down, I look for other people to offer help to them? I suppose I must have heard at one point that the best way to cheer yourself is to offer cheer to someone else.
Last night, Alaina asked for a story on the couch. I dozed off reading to her, and she woke me gently, telling me, "Go wan!" When I finished, she curled in my arms and went to sleep. The two of us were fast asleep on the couch when Garrett arrived home later. He got ready for bed, and I recited "Where The Wild Things Are" from memory rather than reading to him. He went upstairs to bed, concerned that he'd be lonely, but did not return. I spent most of the night on the couch with my girl tucked into the curve of my body. When my back hurt, I covered her and moved to the guest bed. I'd have taken her with me, but the broken arm and leg make carrying anything larger than a teacup impossible.
A mist like opalescent luminous paint winds itself around the leaves and vines and trees and flowers that meander, brilliant and untamed, across the wild patch I term "yard".
Yesterday was Tuesday, and since my flying adventure, I've noticed I have trouble with Tuesdays. I woke sweating from a dream of abandonment this morning, delighted to find it was Wednesday. Wednesday generally means a trip to Rob Breszny's site for a look at my horoscope, but this morning it was less inspiring than usual. However, I found an article on the front page, about Harmonic Convergence, exquisitely fascinating.
A literary site I'm fond of, Lit.org, has been captivating me these last couple of days. Why is it when I'm down, I look for other people to offer help to them? I suppose I must have heard at one point that the best way to cheer yourself is to offer cheer to someone else.
Last night, Alaina asked for a story on the couch. I dozed off reading to her, and she woke me gently, telling me, "Go wan!" When I finished, she curled in my arms and went to sleep. The two of us were fast asleep on the couch when Garrett arrived home later. He got ready for bed, and I recited "Where The Wild Things Are" from memory rather than reading to him. He went upstairs to bed, concerned that he'd be lonely, but did not return. I spent most of the night on the couch with my girl tucked into the curve of my body. When my back hurt, I covered her and moved to the guest bed. I'd have taken her with me, but the broken arm and leg make carrying anything larger than a teacup impossible.
04 November, 2003
Week Four
Monday, start of Week Four
After several phone calls to arrange and rearrange, I am relaxed enough to don my swimsuit, yes, in November, for some sunbathing, a solar hairdryer after my awkward bath. Toasting in the rosy rays, I dream my hair has grown, Rapunzel-like, wrapping me round like a living blanket, snaring leaves and twigs and small birds. Fuzzy wakes me, fascinated by a black-tipped red-brown caterpillar that undulates along the walk. I encourage her to touch it with one finger. Eventually, conquering her girly, inexplicable fear of creepies and crawlies, she does so, delighted to find that it is, in fact, fuzzy, just as Mama promised.
I have managed to hook my bra together when The Prince walks in the front door, and scoot to the bedroom for a shirt. Not that he hasn't seen, but... he and Coco have arrived to take me to our Murder Mystery on the Eastern Shore, at Wye River. The interior of Coco's smokey, cluttered car rings with our shared laughter on the way down, and companionable silence on the way back. The Prince is quiet, pleasant company, less animated than usual, and Coco is very well, until we pass a John Deere harvesting soybeans from a field two miles prior to our venue. She becomes instantly allergy ridden, and is uncomfortable for the entirety of the show, poor thing.
The drive across the bridge is lovely, and I manage to not lose contact with Lewis, who has called from The Bay Weekly to interview me. He also interviews CJ, in a remote, relayed question-and-answer sort of way, as she is driving and doesn't want to hold the cell phone. Lewis promises to mail a copy of the issue in which the article appears, very kind, and I look forward to it.
Less satisfying is my conversation with Steven, who is after some scripts that I'm working on, and evidently did not get, or lost track of, the ones I had sent last week. Or (let's be fair) the ones I thought I sent last week. The outfit I'm working for as an independant contractor, Academic Edge, has a website that is far, far inferior to Steve's own, which surprises me, and does not, both at once. Steve's is probably the most beautiful website I've ever seen, appropriately so, as he is not only beautiful but a genius as well. And amazingly self-disciplined, which I admire but do not envy, somehow.
The Murder goes well. The guests are sparse but involved, quietly so. L feels he has not done a good job of managing the investigation, but I've never known him to admit to having done a good job on anything. Coco sneezes incessantly, The Prince seems distracted, and I alternate between hopping around and grumbling at being pushed. D is cheerful, as always, and S is feeling poorly. We're quite a motley group tonight, and nobody wants to drink or even eat together afterwards, very unusual. Most of us will return to this site on Saturday, for a different show.
Hawk is still home, and I savor another night beside him in the waterbed, though he inconsiderately insists on sleeping diagonally. A mixed blessing, that. I miss him in the morning when he leaves me, though I have the bed comfortably all to myself.
Mixed feelings. A lot like life.
After several phone calls to arrange and rearrange, I am relaxed enough to don my swimsuit, yes, in November, for some sunbathing, a solar hairdryer after my awkward bath. Toasting in the rosy rays, I dream my hair has grown, Rapunzel-like, wrapping me round like a living blanket, snaring leaves and twigs and small birds. Fuzzy wakes me, fascinated by a black-tipped red-brown caterpillar that undulates along the walk. I encourage her to touch it with one finger. Eventually, conquering her girly, inexplicable fear of creepies and crawlies, she does so, delighted to find that it is, in fact, fuzzy, just as Mama promised.
I have managed to hook my bra together when The Prince walks in the front door, and scoot to the bedroom for a shirt. Not that he hasn't seen, but... he and Coco have arrived to take me to our Murder Mystery on the Eastern Shore, at Wye River. The interior of Coco's smokey, cluttered car rings with our shared laughter on the way down, and companionable silence on the way back. The Prince is quiet, pleasant company, less animated than usual, and Coco is very well, until we pass a John Deere harvesting soybeans from a field two miles prior to our venue. She becomes instantly allergy ridden, and is uncomfortable for the entirety of the show, poor thing.
The drive across the bridge is lovely, and I manage to not lose contact with Lewis, who has called from The Bay Weekly to interview me. He also interviews CJ, in a remote, relayed question-and-answer sort of way, as she is driving and doesn't want to hold the cell phone. Lewis promises to mail a copy of the issue in which the article appears, very kind, and I look forward to it.
Less satisfying is my conversation with Steven, who is after some scripts that I'm working on, and evidently did not get, or lost track of, the ones I had sent last week. Or (let's be fair) the ones I thought I sent last week. The outfit I'm working for as an independant contractor, Academic Edge, has a website that is far, far inferior to Steve's own, which surprises me, and does not, both at once. Steve's is probably the most beautiful website I've ever seen, appropriately so, as he is not only beautiful but a genius as well. And amazingly self-disciplined, which I admire but do not envy, somehow.
The Murder goes well. The guests are sparse but involved, quietly so. L feels he has not done a good job of managing the investigation, but I've never known him to admit to having done a good job on anything. Coco sneezes incessantly, The Prince seems distracted, and I alternate between hopping around and grumbling at being pushed. D is cheerful, as always, and S is feeling poorly. We're quite a motley group tonight, and nobody wants to drink or even eat together afterwards, very unusual. Most of us will return to this site on Saturday, for a different show.
Hawk is still home, and I savor another night beside him in the waterbed, though he inconsiderately insists on sleeping diagonally. A mixed blessing, that. I miss him in the morning when he leaves me, though I have the bed comfortably all to myself.
Mixed feelings. A lot like life.
02 November, 2003
Partially Mobile
Triumph! Standing on my good leg, I manoever the wheelchair to the sidewalk in front of the porch. Hopping barefoot down the two steps, I savor sunwarmed concrete under my sole. Scootch the chair along one legged, wiggle my way out the gate, a careful controlled downslope drift to the mailbox; I HAVE ARRIVED. Open the mailbox, caring little whether there be treasure or trash inside: faugh! it is Sunday. There is no mail.
Wheeling disconsolate back into the drive, I spot my overgrown, untended bed of blousy blooming mums, in pink and yellow and peach, autumn blossoms disguised in colors of springtime. I am cheered, as I was meant to be, look my fill, wheel round to face the sun and fall into a snooze. Catnap for me until the sun makes itself scarce and late persistant mosquitos come to feast on my naked foot.
Yesterday also beautiful, and I lie facedown in the grass outside my second home, the Chesapeake Arts Center. A filmmaker from California, here for the Film Fest, keeps me company, listening and talking with quiet intensity. Inside from time to time watching some of the offerings, including his own, Dream of the Lizard; outside again in the retreating sun, we spend a lovely four hours.
Time to leave for Murder Mystery. Coco and I have a wonderful time together in the car, playing games we invent as we go. Rehearsal is brief, but the trip from the parking lot to the restaurant has made me feel burdensome, inconvenient, unwieldy and frustrated. I am therefor cranky, so much so that the cast gives me a wide berth, which is actually not what I need. The Prince understands, and is amazingly obvious in his thoughtfulness, quite a departure, as he tends to be a practitioner of Stealth Kindness. We go for food, and Sid entertains me by steering the chair in a comically dangerous fashion.
When we finish, the Prince carries me, tossed like potatos over his shoulder, the short distance to his car. I suppose this place, one of his usual haunts, is accustomed to his outrageous antics, as no one seems to think this behavior unusual. Certainly it's preferable to returning to my wheeled cage.
We return to the Rod and Reel, and while I am putting on my makeup in the bathroom, the men clear a path for me in the crowded back storage space that is our safe room, setting up an area in which I can apply makeup to our ghosts. I am fortunate to work with such considerate people. The show goes well despite my feelings of inadequacy, and we revisit the bar where we'd had dinner. A young man named Montiego has not moved from the stool he occupied when Sherri introduced us more than four hours ago. Swearing that he is not hitting on me, he proceeds to flatter me shamelessly. I am charmed, though unconvinced. Still, he is amusing company, discussing cities, football, food and strip clubs with me in a fairly random fashion.
Two beers are not enough to put me to sleep, so I am a lucid passenger for Coco. We invent another game and tell each other stories. Arriving home, we find Hawk's car out front. He doesn't wake, though we are far from quiet in our entry. Three am finds me working my way up the stairs to sleep, for the first time in three weeks, beside my husband in our waterbed.
Wheeling disconsolate back into the drive, I spot my overgrown, untended bed of blousy blooming mums, in pink and yellow and peach, autumn blossoms disguised in colors of springtime. I am cheered, as I was meant to be, look my fill, wheel round to face the sun and fall into a snooze. Catnap for me until the sun makes itself scarce and late persistant mosquitos come to feast on my naked foot.
Yesterday also beautiful, and I lie facedown in the grass outside my second home, the Chesapeake Arts Center. A filmmaker from California, here for the Film Fest, keeps me company, listening and talking with quiet intensity. Inside from time to time watching some of the offerings, including his own, Dream of the Lizard; outside again in the retreating sun, we spend a lovely four hours.
Time to leave for Murder Mystery. Coco and I have a wonderful time together in the car, playing games we invent as we go. Rehearsal is brief, but the trip from the parking lot to the restaurant has made me feel burdensome, inconvenient, unwieldy and frustrated. I am therefor cranky, so much so that the cast gives me a wide berth, which is actually not what I need. The Prince understands, and is amazingly obvious in his thoughtfulness, quite a departure, as he tends to be a practitioner of Stealth Kindness. We go for food, and Sid entertains me by steering the chair in a comically dangerous fashion.
When we finish, the Prince carries me, tossed like potatos over his shoulder, the short distance to his car. I suppose this place, one of his usual haunts, is accustomed to his outrageous antics, as no one seems to think this behavior unusual. Certainly it's preferable to returning to my wheeled cage.
We return to the Rod and Reel, and while I am putting on my makeup in the bathroom, the men clear a path for me in the crowded back storage space that is our safe room, setting up an area in which I can apply makeup to our ghosts. I am fortunate to work with such considerate people. The show goes well despite my feelings of inadequacy, and we revisit the bar where we'd had dinner. A young man named Montiego has not moved from the stool he occupied when Sherri introduced us more than four hours ago. Swearing that he is not hitting on me, he proceeds to flatter me shamelessly. I am charmed, though unconvinced. Still, he is amusing company, discussing cities, football, food and strip clubs with me in a fairly random fashion.
Two beers are not enough to put me to sleep, so I am a lucid passenger for Coco. We invent another game and tell each other stories. Arriving home, we find Hawk's car out front. He doesn't wake, though we are far from quiet in our entry. Three am finds me working my way up the stairs to sleep, for the first time in three weeks, beside my husband in our waterbed.