from nothing

i couldn't fall asleep, i was thinking about raging parties and scary things and things i couldn't change so instead i decided to daydream about childrens literature and the bookshelf in the bedroom with a pink glow of lampshade and a small one asleep in the bed. i thought about aunt mackenzie teaching to sew a button and aunt brittany tying shoes for school and telling uncle busse to watch his language. i thought about road trips to see large trees and wide rivers and gaping canyons. i thought about a big big house with crowded people in it and early morning garden watering and hose water on my barefeet on a brickwalk and tall sunflowers and corn against a fence. i thought of dark cozy drapes made from scraps, yarn in her braids and wrapping packages with grocery store paper bags, sending them someplace far away like chile or polska or maybe okinawa or london or out into the forest somewhere.

i thought about worn-out passports and seasons of life always changing and always coming back to the same place, where our hearts are, where home is. i thought about soft skin, and holding tight and rocking slowly and kissing goodnight. i thought about glasses of wine and lots of laughter and pretty music coming from the record player. i thought about red balloons at birthday parties and rachael's special cakes. i thought of messy faces, dirty knees, warm cornbread, painting eggs, lying in the grass making wishes. i thought about brothers and sisters and cousins and giving thanks, big smiles; the family we created.

she's not moving to warsaw.

there are people doing some really fantastic things.
i can feel it in my chest and i can feel it in my bones.

by the rosebush laughin'

i live in the north with watermelon coloured lips. an envelope from polska today came jeff handed it to me then handed me the keys. in it were little treasures like tea bags and postcards and pretty receipts and things. little scribbles and folds. i keep running my fingers along the sides of my face. i keep imagining some body weight at my back while i'm horizontal. i painted wood boards today. along the outdoor stage and took a deep breath in and thought about the different air in different cities, especially los angeles. and then i thought about the mary hill theatre and working on projects like making flats and painting ocean scenes and the apron and confetti machines and getting ready for opening night. i thought about soft red carpet and the sound of the saw, feet walking in the costume shop before it got moved.

and i thought about never feeling satisfied, but trying. and i thought about being jealous of people buying plane tickets to europe or anywhere. and i thought about home. i thought about my long days and my back aches and seeing the sign that says 101 san francisco, towards home. i thought about what is the measure of success? and what direction am i taking? and what's in store for me in the direction i don't take?

gingerbread roofs and

trying to find thierry for erin.

summer & smoke

ALMA:
I don't think I will be able to get through the summer.

JOHN:
You'll get through, Miss Alma.

ALMA:
How?

JOHN:
One day will come after another and one night will come after another til sooner or later the summer will be all through with and then it will be fall, and you will be saying, I don't see how I'm going to get through the fall.

ALMA:
Oh...

refrigerator poetry

he growls
pulls out a gun the guy nerves my body me him in a dark room
she was a librarian a pretty girl funny business like flips a coin
and gamble

a light the truth a femme fatale is trying to kill she has bullets
working her charm the kisser smells like my cigarettes

pistol-whipped I wake up in big trouble somebody has been found
who did it he didn’t some mug a shot the loot you someone falls to the floor
at the bar a chump

a bohemian type know nothing rotten bloody shooting on a tough guy hot damnation
it was in the hallway punches are flying legs footprints a fist across the chops

no good cabbages in the lake I say and I think my husband his wife a clue

he is out of swell and it’s about to take out

we give him thanks

i'm so close to oregon. i never realized.

-finishing things i start
-addictions
-rollercoaster
-visitors
-classrooms
-connections
-tall trees
-three square meals
-arcata
-old hippies
-irene
-lost coast
-wiyott
-FOMO
-not being around
-length
-time continuum
-warm bed
-backache
-shhhh
-summer & smoke
-tea & bourbon
-bourbon street

long, long, long

i'm in a cozy hotel room
for the weekend.
can't sleep.
put in earphones
listen to pretty goodnight
music, for to rock me
and drown out the sound
of my mother's snoring.

i am thinking that
i am hungry. and
i am thinking that
i will read some
tennessee williams. and
i am thinking that
there are so many
books to read and so
little time. and i'm
wondering if tobin
has read on the road
yet, i wish she would.

also i am thinking.
that it feels so brave
to be (here). and
listening to pretty
music shawn gave
me that makes me
so sad and strange. and
it feels very brave.

in the costume room

four ladies
sitting around the
table, sewing
and cutting
sipping on hot tea
and bourbon
for to soothe the sniffles.

and sat round learnin'
all about leslie and
her sailin' trips
with pirates,
real ones.

it was july 21st

one of those grade school paper folds.
and my fortune was
forgive yourself for something you did back then,
this is what victor told me.

and i was starting to find comfort in t.s.eliot,
for he said to me,
there will be time, there will be time,
and i thought that was nice.

oh, it was a horrible day
of wondrous output.
i was chopping in the kitchen,
and now my finger is bleeding.

and then i decided, once and for all,
to write a letter to all the teachers
who've taught me well. and first
on my list was stephanie arino.

every inch

every inch of my body
hurts ouch.
i feel like crying ouch.
i feel like sinking into wine ouch.
but really i just
want to be held tightly.
in familiarity and
without all this pain.
hear me ouch.
hear me out there.
hear me whispering
and gently mocking
and sobbing
and scribbling.
hear me squeezing
and ripping
and silently hitting
and spitting.
i am just hurting ouch
in a swirling pool,
in doubt, in blinding
doubt and questions
and revisions, oh, ouch.

14th chorus

and when they saw me
rowin my sailin canoe
across the lake of dreams
in the lotus valley swamp,
and arrested me
for the size
of my heart,
t's' then i decided
'don't come back'
they'll eat your heart alive
every time.
but there's more blood
i shed
outa my pumpin heart
at teotihuacan
and everywhere else
including turban block,
lookout, ork-
i got more water
pissed in the ocean
as a sailor of the several
seas
than sallow's
aphorism
will allow

-jack kerouac

old towne coffee & fudge

i've surrounded myself in books. mexico city blues. the little prince. tennessee williams. the bell jar. a portrait of the artist as a young man. pablo neruda. the beat reader. one flew over the cuckoos nest. so many pages. of paper. of words. of sentences. of ideas. and thoughts. of insanity. shelves in bookstores. top to bottom. bending back my neck, then crouching down low. a very small downtown street, alone. it is good to be alone. i am never alone. and remember what it was like in paris. all over europe, the solitary contemplative time, of roaming a strange city. it is a strange comfortable feeling.

james joyce. this book is dry. and i do not care so much about it except for the fact that i started it and now i must finish it. i also told myself i would finish the chapter on buddhism in my world religions book. i like crossing things off my list. whether it is countries or books or afi movies or poets or theatre movements.

i could read all day. please, give me permission to just read all day. o.k.?

Blue Lake

After the Dell’Arte show we drove down the street to a bar, which curiously happened to be closed at 9:30 on a Saturday night. We drove back up the street and stopped in at a place called the Logger a half a block from the theatre. It had big saws and metal helmets and old pictures of logger men on the wall and one person in it, Brenda, the bartender. There was a pool table on the far side, so we started a pitiful game of it after we ordered our pitcher of local Tangerine wheat beer. I put a handful of quarters into the juke box and picked your typical classic rock bar songs that everyone knows. Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen. My Generation by the Who. Hard Day’s Night. There were eight of us, the only ones in the bar. Mieke, standing by the bartender, starts asking her questions in her friendly way. “How long you been here in Blue Lake?” “Too long.” “Oh yeah? How long’s that?” “Too long,” she says.

We raised our glasses to each other and said On with the night! Maybe we’d have a couple of drinks and head back. Saturday, but still on a tight schedule, I had to be up at 7:30 the next morning.

I stepped out for a cigarette or phone call, I can't remember, and four people were on the corner. They said hello, which I’m really not used to. I’m from LA and I’ve lived in Paris, spent a lot of time in San Francisco, I don’t talk to strangers much and they don’t talk to me. Unless in extraordinary circumstances and this was one of those. We happened to be in Blue Lake, California where there is, in fact, no lake at all; this was a small town. I recognized one of the girls from the concessions stands at the theatre. “You and your crew interested in skinny dipping?” she says. I pursed my lips in a sort of happy frown unsure way and kicked the door open shouting, “you guys wanna go skinny dipping?”

The Dell’Arte people joined us inside ordering their whiskey and what-nots and told us they were waiting for a few more. When their friends joined it was the actors from the show from a group called Under The Table from Brooklyn in the middle of their summer tour. We talked theater, what their process was for this show and how its always changing and always adding and subtracting and how much improv is involved. We tried earnestly to explain what the hell Cornerstone is doing in Eureka and what community engaged theatre is and the Institute program and what our show was and the fact that we have professional actors performing beside completely inexperienced community members. This is when I discovered how friendly actors are in general.

So off we went down the dark road surrounded by black as ink sequoias and a heavy mist over low mountains and the glow of the brewery shining on us. Over the bridge and down a steep dirt pathway to a field of soft, round river rocks to the edge of the river. There we were, fifteen strangers and stripping naked in the night, cloud cover showing us no stars or moon for light and trying to balance as we unsheathed. I leaned towards Liz and said, “did you ever think you’d be in Blue Lake, California doing this?” “I try not to rule things out,” she said with a laugh. Her very beautiful, distinctive laugh.

Peeling off layers and feeling more free with each tug of fabric we empty ourselves of inhibition and start running on rock over rolling rock. Dancing wildly like the Sigur Ros video of beautiful people with long hair galloping through the forest naked in some secluded Icelandic landscape and here we were, we could have been in Iceland, North Dakota, the Appalachians or anywhere with nothing to cover us but also nothing to expose us except ourselves and our choice of freedom and friendship. There's something friendly and vulnerable about getting a group of strangers together nude on their own accord in the spontaneous jump of Saturday night and summer.

We splashed and shrieked and were nostalgic for a while until it was the ready moment to head back. We dabbed dry with hand towels and nearly fell over trying to put underwear and jeans back on, then climbed the hill to the bridge and make our way back when we noticed that not one of us had a camera to snap maybe a single shot of the night, a small token of the evening which was a regrettable realization for most. But I think, maybe, I like it better this way.

go black, and, one by one

"i saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.

from the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. one fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was ee gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was europe and africa and south america, and another fig was constantin and socrates and attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs i couldn't quite make out.

i saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because i couldn't make up my mind which of the figs i would choose. i wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as i sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

-sylvia plath, the bell jar

thinking about,

>comfy bed
>the bell jar
>unfinished
>process, process
>the wiyot massacre of 1860
>tired eyes
>dresses
>house dynamics
>weekends without
>meals & cleaning
>getting along

the evening of

throwing on miles davis
and falling asleep with
make up on, sprawled
incongruently with the
bed on the floor.

the things that are most
difficult are usually the
most rewarding and i'm
remembering that.

it is hard to be a part of
something good that
other people in your life
will never know.
it is a hard thing.

i'm finding time to be
contemplative in the
rush of days.
it is a hard thing indeed.

blue in green
is singing swirling to me
and my silk flower rests
upon my back.

pillow talk
and exhaustion
cracking ankles
warm socks, bed lamp

oh miles, your trumpet
oh, heaven your skies
your miles of sky
the swirling singing music

i'm taking a break from novels.

and sticking to poetry books, and this..

thankful for,

a bottle of wine and smart people and
ones who want to talk and talk it out.
johnny cash a few alone moments.
looking forward to heading to the
blue ox mill today to see the printing
press and get ideas for my poster.
more to come because there's oh so
much more to come. i love you.

eight fifty-five

planning a poetry night. package in the mail, smells of burberry. polaroids and (good love). of october. printing things out late at night. doodling for postcards & marketing. inviting community over for dinner. chocolate decadence cake gift. tie-dye. old stolen photo unknown. jeff. script readings. seven a.m. phone calls and catching up. sage. hidden wine bottle and waiting. breakfast meeting. eureka families. nearby trees not seen. playground. cold. the acsension of. hard-backed chairs. good conversation. feeling smart. a helping hand and doing dishes. dancing. mieke. alpha. bridges. theater. LA term. missing love. calender. claire iris schencke. carpet. reading. shawn.

miss this

theatering

cornerstone theater company
summer institute 2009 blog

it's good to keep lists

..cultural mapping
..can't sleep
..back pain
..texts from long lost friends
..hoping you are o.k.
..making lunch

days like,

getting used to waking up very early. drinking coffee again. and lots of water. cooking in the kitchen and setting out utensils. using markers and reading scripts. running around an old school in the skeleton of catholicism. not using the internet, except in tiny moments and starting to be o.k. with it. reading poetry and re-reading poetry in the very sleepy moments of an early bedtime and squeaky airmattress. my back hurts. i am tired and rejuvenated. by art and togetherness and jobs i have created for myself like quote of the day. and sneaking off at quick times to smoke around the corner or call someone very loved.

we are wearing lots of layers in the height of summer on the cold north coast surrounded by redwoods and grass and elves (i swear), and going without showers. creating lists. of errand run items. and fun excursions to do when i get home. and postcard people. and things i am obsessed with these days like the a ghost is born album and specifically, hummingbird; teaching andres everything beatles; crafting things with yarn for personal adornment; the anticipation of mail; menthols; hymmnn & song by allen ginsberg; the road by jackson browne; sweetnlow; learning; she belongs to me by bob dylan; dresses; patches; virtual kisses; being brave; or trying. to be brave.

one times forty

mackenzie says i am looking
too much into the future and
i should focus on each day and
getting through it.

so i made a little note that says
one day at a time
and taped it up on my wall
with lovers polaroids.

i am very dirty and hair tied up
in scarves and listening to
jackson browne in my few
alone moments before bed.

my corner of bed floor
sleeping; sleeping bag
shoebox bookshelf coffeemug
and silk flower open suitcase.

living in an abandoned classroom
chalkboards, cream yellow cinder
block walls and real lonely feeling.

checking things off my list like
books to read and
tasks for the day and
cry a little bit.

one day at a time she says and yes
one times forty will come. and go.
and then the distance we will
all know joy.

Song

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.

-Allen Ginsberg

jack, jeff and other men that i think about..

his goal in life was to be an echo

in san francisco

-ten year old anxiety
-traveling to the land of elves
-hummingbird, over again
-a book gift
-stamps & letters
-perspective
-the word vignettes
-brave patch
-melancholy
-phone calls
-eyelash wishes

eureka california

leaving soon and i'm the
vagabond gypsy queen.
sometimes the itch to leave is just
stronger than the desire to stay.
(sometimes the desire to stay is
stronger than the itch to leave)

but i was born this way and this is
how it will always go.
enormous parts of me are sad but
there are parts of me that are happy too.
and every time i get down i think of
the february i took my backpack to

france; alone. and this time
i want to bring my copy of tom sawyer
and pretend i'm becky or tom and eat
apples in the dirt among the redwoods.
string up lights and put on a play.
put leaves in my hair and thermals

underneath and put my feet in the water.
and getting domestic with aprons and food.
no matter where you are, you'll always
miss something. because i miss steph and
ryan and the boulangerie and esther at
the clinic. and in eureka i will miss brit

and mack and all my loves and my love.
and i'll miss the porch and large jugs'o'wine,
and dixon and oh, how i'll miss your face, dear.
i keep saying it all day long, i will be brave.
for my lionheart is underneath all my

softness and raggedy ann face. brown tights,
short dresses, long hair and a mailbox. the
corner street, our bad neighborhood. smiles
and distance. fences, europe, loneliness,
weather, fragile, hugs and cigarettes. these are
the things i think of.

thinking about..

copycat &
paperwork
letters
james joyce
yawning &
packing &
being lionhearted
big girl bed
making plans
kitchen table
masking tape
photograph
the sad one
quality time
don't copycat, please
russian house
playwright
summer clothes