Slow and Steady

Last Saturday I went on a 55 mile bike ride. I am training for ALC (AIDS Lifecycle) 2013, a 7-day, 555 mile bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles the first week of June.  In order to do this ride, I have to train.

I have done this ride before. I did not train. Consequently, I was always in the last few riders each day. I had a hybrid, which is about 20 pounds heavier than my current bike. I only did six training rides, which is nowhere near enough. I'm proud of myself for having done it, but it was not an optimal experience by any stretch of the imagination.

So this year, swept up in the excitement of the closing ceremonies I attended to support friends, I decided to sign up again. I got a lighter bike. I'm completely prepared.

Saturday, though, I found myself somewhat near the back again. I was distressed somewhat; I figured with my new bike I could be out in front with the other riders. I didn't figure myself into this equation, though. Turns out, I'm not really a racer.

I'm a fast person. I think fast, I move quickly, I drive quickly. There are few activities I do slowly. Biking, apparently, is one of them.  I stopped and got off my bike 3 times to take pictures.  I waved to the cows and horses.  I really took my time. I thought about what fantasies engender these crazy place in LA. I finished, albeit at a much slower pace.  I wasn't the last rider, so that's a step.

During the last leg I was thinking about what I would write about if I wrote about the experience. It's odd, I suppose, but composing prose in your head is a good way to pass the time. I don't know what I wrote, and I'm sure it was brilliant.  But what I think I was wanting to express is that I may not finish first. I may be behind again - one of the last riders of the day, rolling in after everyone has been in camp quite a while.  On this ride, I figured out that was fine; I may miss what's going on immediately, but I can see what's truly important - that we get to experience it. That we're doing this to raise money for support for AIDS services. It's easy to forget that while griping about things, or even when it's beautiful and the scenery is stunning, which it is most of the time.  There is a purpose, and none of that purpose is about racing through.

I will probably always talk and think fast, but I hope I have the presence of mind to stay slow when I need to on this ride. I'd like to experience what I can - there's no finish line, the whole experience is there to be there for everyone, and make it happen.  To raise money for a good cause.  I need to go at my own pace. I need to remember what a joy it is to see what I'm seeing at the pace I'm traveling. That stopping and taking pictures is okay and should be encouraged.  That I don't need to be at the front of the pack - in the middle and enjoying the ride is just fine, too.

Art and Agitation

If you have this calling, I have no advice for you. Work hard.

-Patti Smith

I saw Patti Smith at USC last week, and those were the words of advice she gave to the last questioner, a young woman who asked what advice she’d give to young female artists. After responding that the questioner should get past labeling herself (“No one calls Picasso a male artist”) she said there was really nothing to say.  I’m sure people don’t love to hear that, but it’s just as honest as everything else she said that night.  Make work, work hard. There is no other way. Her career is a testament to that.  She told everyone that if they could only buy one album this year, to buy the new My Bloody Valentine album and not hers.  She is all about creation and art.  Well, read her book, and that’s pretty clear.

I don’t work hard at it, if I'm honest with myself. It's scary. It's exhilarating as well to see someone as open as she is. What resonated for me in what she spoke about that evening, and what I heard at the LA Library talk the following evening, was influences and the desire/urge/need to do something when you’re experiencing others’ art.

The interviewer asked Patti Smith about all her influences, it was his first question. I’d just been writing about feeling overstuffed with things on this blog that day – too much material to see, things to read, feeling overstuffed.  The first question hit me between the eyes.  She spoke of feeling agitated when seeing a work that she responded to. She first called it excited, then changed to agitated, which felt apt – that feeling of discomfort in which you’re excited, propelled, uncomfortable, to make something yourself in response to what you’re seeing.  I’d never heard it described that way, but that’s the feeling – a restless, get out of your chair kind of feeling.

The following night, I was lucky enough to see Bernard Cooper and George Saunders talk about writing at the LA Library and reading from their work. The theme was not knowing while writing, how to write when you’re not sure where you’re going.  The discussion was fascinating, but what struck me was that both writers, and the moderator, spoke often of work they liked and quotes from writers they admired.  These ideas guide them, hearten them, and inspire them.

We’re not alone when we think we are. All four of these people spoke of their influences, how they are buoyed, inspired, cowed by them, as well as how much they love and admire the works of their heroes.  I have a tendency to think that there’s so much in the world and too much information to process at times. I know I won’t process it all. But that slight shift, into realizing that we all are influenced by others, and we can use those influences to inspire and challenge us, was welcome.

I love to read. I love to watch performance. I take notes when I go to museums. I get restless and agitated – watching the Rite of Spring I was composing prose in my head to describe what it was doing.  Listening to Patti Smith sing Because the Night makes me want to sing as nakedly and giving as she does (I could go on about her fearlessness, openness, honesty, humor, but that’s for another thought; for that matter I could go on about how great George Saunders and Bernard Cooper were, too).  When describing how she still feels so much love for her late husband when she sings it was palpable, light-giving. It’s heartening that we all have these influences, that they make us want to do better, to create, to delve deeper. I admit it’s probably shallow to feel like I need permission from others to feel this, but it’s not really permission – it’s acknowledgement of a shared impulse.  That sharing is exciting. There was a theme at the library reading of favorite quotes, and even some of the audience members shared theirs before asking their questions.

We are living in a crowded time.  We can’t get to it all, but when I get away from consumption to inspiration, it all turns around.

Overstuffed.

"There must be some closing of the gates after thirty if the mind is to become a creative force"

 - Howards End, E.M. Forster

Overstuffed.

Today, I went to find my copy of “Just Kids”, the book Patti Smith wrote about her early days in New York with Robert Mapplethorpe. I was unable to locate it in the gloomy dark of my apartment, so I turned on the light, even though I dislike unnatural light in the morning. Weird quirk, but I tend to stumble around in the dark, without my glasses, in the morning, possibly in an attempt to ignore that I’ve had to wake up. It’s the physical embodiment of one of those gradual light alarm clocks. Some people like to meditate, I stumble around in the dark.

Anyhow, I was unable to locate the book. I did notice, however, the five stacks of books that have piled up in front of the books that are actually filed on my bookshelves.  A year ago I cleaned the shelves, gave away 5 brown paper grocery bags of books, and started on yet another campaign for a Spartan simplicity in my apartment. My apartment is crowded with remnants of my attempts at simplicity.

I was overwhelmed by the books I have yet to read. Last year, I scoured my shelves to leave only the books I hadn’t read, or ones that are very special to me, and once again, the shelves are filled. I have more in my garage.  There’s the works of Montaigne, kinda slow to read when you’re also looking at the French on the opposite page, though interesting. The Twyla Tharp creativity book. Biographies about Patti LuPone and Ethel Merman. The Age of Wonder ; stories by Etgar Keret, Karen Russell, and Adam Haslett; a novel by Steve Martin; Proust was a Neuroscientist,; and the two books I just got this week, Far from the Tree, by Andrew Solomon, about children; and Why Does the World Exist? An Existential Detective Story.  I also finally got Hero with a Thousand Faces, since I’d only ever read about Joseph Campbell. The list goes on.

I bring this up because I think I’m feeling a little overstuffed. Tonight I’m going to hear Patti Smith speak, which is why I wanted to find the book for her to sign.  Tomorrow is a talk with Bernard Cooper and George Saunders, both of whom I’m excited to hear read and talk.  Sunday I saw the spectacular reconstruction of the Nijinsky/Stravinsky Rite of Spring by the Joffrey Ballet. Friday night, I saw a great central performance of a solid, fun, ecstatic, interesting play at Sacred Fools called Absolutely Filthy. The main character is Pig Pen at 30, a homeless, meth addict. The writer and main actor, Brendan Hunt, hula hoops for the entire show while playing the character. Beyond being a virtuoso feat, coupled with the Nijinsky it started me thinking about madness, movement and Sacrifice. That’s been percolating.

During the Rite of Spring, I was thinking of how I would write about it, which is my usual reaction to anything, especially something I love so much and have a long relationship with. One look at my blog will tell you how often that happens.  So perhaps I would feel a little less overstuffed if I got some of this out.  That might be a solution.

And I don’t even want to talk about what’s on my DVR. I seem to only be able to watch Project Runway, RuPaul's Drag Race, and an occasional episode of Louie or Bunheads. 

The quote above is one of my favorites from one of my favorite books, and I've mentioned it before. Perhaps heeding it is a good idea, but it's very challenging, especially in a city with so much to offer. I guess this is the nature of living in what is understatedly termed “A crowded media landscape?”

Jane & Julia

It looks like my Jane Sibbery singing Calling All Angels didn't embed in the post from yesterday.  It's
here.

And below - is her doing something more akin to what I saw last night.

 

She played this small club in LA, Molly Malone's, with Julia Fordham, who is doing a residency there. They both did their big hits from the early nineties, Julia singing back-up on this, as well as "The Temple" and "Love is Everything".  Gorgeous songs. Hearing Julia Fordham singing "Manhattan Skyline" live was wonderful, and I still know every word twenty years later. Loved that album. Her voice is velvet.

I had seen Jane Siberry live in NY at a Joni Mitchell tribute, and also at the Bottom Line in a songwriter's roundtable with Janis Ian and Cheryl Wheeler. She seems prickly - at one point she stopped playing a song because the audience laughed - she seemed truly annoyed. At the same time, she can't help but be charming. What I love about her is just that.  She's vulnerable, seemingly all feeling and impulse.  I'd say I can't imagine it's an easy way to be, but frankly I have no idea - it could be blissful.  She seems very present. Julia Fordham was, too, as well as Tim Boothe from James, who played some new songs.

I realize what a privilege it is to have people share something like that with you.  You forget (or maybe I do, since I tend to discount when I do it) how vulnerable it is to be up on stage. I've always been able to hide behind a character, and it's only recently in performing a few times as myself, either singing or telling stories, that I see how nerve-wracking it is.  Not like I didn't have stage fright, but when you're trying so desperately to create something else out of yourself to become a character, you forget how naked it is to just be up in front of people.  Especially when you are in front of people performing something you composed.

I'm blathering, but I will say the first time I performed just telling a story about myself and singing, I was so nauseated I thought I was going to throw up. I've been going on stages since I was thirteen and I'm in my mid-forties; I cannot recall ever feeling this sick. I'm a little sick even linking it - ha.

Jane (I'm going to assume a familiarity I don't have), spoke about what she used to think was stage fright was actually excitement, and her body's adrenaline system shifting into a different mode.  I see that I extrapolated earlier from how she was on stage that she was that way in life - truly I don't know. I am grateful as an audience member that she was that open - and to the other two performers as well. It is not easy - reams have been written about it.

Tim Boothe was wearing a t-shirt with Patti Smith on it. Fitting.  She's one of the people I've seen who just is so herself it's breathtaking. I suppose that's what it is.  Part of the performance is probably being vulnerable without letting yourself get hurt - paradoxically it takes a great deal of confidence to be that vulnerable.  I do love all kinds of performance, but there's a special place in my heart for voices and guitar.

And if you don't know Jane Siberry's album "When I Was A Boy", then get it. I think it's about grief, but it's about much and feels revealed almost. That's part of the art of it.  You know it was crafted, but it feels delivered in one piece from somewhere that wants to reveal a secret we all should know. That's art, I guess.

Calling All Angels

I cannot stop thinking about New York (and the rest of the East) and how they are dealing with the aftermath of the hurricane.  I was downtown in NY for September 11th, and I remember being shocked and a little annoyed at the force of feelings the rest of the country had about the event.  We were the ones affected, after all, so what was so disturbing?  I was younger. Probably in shock. And that whole event was wrapped up in nationalism, attack, a known enemy. I understand more now, though, being a continent away and worried for friends and the city itself.

Here the enemy is something we cannot band together and rail against. We can only hope to recover. I feel impotent being unable to do anything as I see the photos of people discovering bodies, standing in endless lines, struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy in the face of such overwhelming disaster. I cannot fathom lower Manhattan underwater. I won't go into my feelings about global warming, but two hurricanes in two years is not a comforting trend.

Anyone who has lived in New York has a relationship to it; it's a city that feels almost like a person.  When we left, my friend Erin and I did a show called "Breaking up with New York" because it felt like the end of a relationship, albeit a one-sided one for the most part. For the country, it's where we keep many of our dreams and stories. It's our history; the birth of the financial district, labor unions, where the draft riots happened, where many of our ancestors first touched down.  It's the Statue of Liberty and her message of hope and sanctuary.  It's Broadway.

I am looking, and finding, stories of human triumph.  It is difficult to watch from this side of the country, though, and be powerless to do anything. You can donate to New York Cares or the New York Food Bank.  You can call your friends and let them know you are thinking of them and pray that they are safe. I never thought I'd be grateful for facebook, but it's been so helpful.  You can remember that New Yorkers (I'm including the tri-state area here) are incredibly resilient, and band together in a crisis.  I suppose we all do as Americans.  We're heterogenous in so many ways, but we're scrappy. I like that about us. I love that about us.

My heart is with all my friends there, as are my worries right now. I hope they have power soon. I know there is a long period of reconstruction ahead. I hope this is not a trend.

Do what you can, call who you need, and be grateful to those around you.

9th Circle?

One of the oldest gay bars in New York City was called The Ninth Circle. I don't actually know if it still exists.  I think it may be closed.  I'm also not sure what the Ninth Circle is, except that I expect it's a Dante reference (leave it to the urbane gays of the 60s and 70s). Here.  Let me check.

Did you miss me? Here's an answer. I love that about the internet - you didn't even know I was gone.  Anyhow, looks like it's the worst circle - for the traitors, like Judas, and in the center is Satan. Or, in slang, the place where things can't get worse.  Leave it to the gays to come up with a name like that for a bar.  I love that. In the sixties. That's called gallows humor, folks.

I digress. This post is really just about boring old writer's block. It's not even writer's block as I am obviously stringing words together right now. It's outlining.  Our hero (I'm casting myself in this role, just for today), would rather fling words and stories out into the universe like so many rubber bands than outline, a process that is needed when one is writing a script.  A pilot, to be exact. I've been wondering if pilot-writing has its own circle. Like, 2 1/2. Room 222. In hell.

Now, never having outlined really that much before, I want to skip it. But I can't. I can't because the outline, I'm finding, is where you actually craft what's happening - where you come up with taut, interesting, interconnected stories; and where you wander around in circles feeling a little like you are chasing your tail. Or pushing a boulder uphill only to have it fall back when you get it near the top; like you're waiting for that thirst to be quenched but as soon as you bend down to take a drink the water is lowered.  That might be the sixth circle, actually.

Yes, The sixth circle. I was right. Did I mention that you spend a lot of time looking up fascinating but ultimately useless information on the internet?  And thought I was pretty up on The House of Atreus, but who knew that it all started with Tantalus? I do now, and so do you. I hope it brings you peaceful dreams.  Did I mention the dreams?  There's a fair amount of walking in circles, staring into space, cleaning things that don't need to be cleaned while ignoring the things that really do, fantasizing about reorganizing and possibly moving, but at least repainting, and finally, maybe, sitting down in front of an empty sheet of paper. And being plagued with doubts.

And did I mention writing blog posts?

Daphne

I've always been interested in the myth of Daphne. It's never made a lot of sense, but I'm fascinated by it.  I wrote this a bit ago. Don't poetize much for fear it's awful (since I don't know poetry), but sharing nonetheless -

Why did Daphne run away?
Easier to root yourself to the ground and ask for help from the heavens -
than give into the god pressuring you,
frightened by his hard desire, his lithe pursuit -
effortlessly endless pursuit -
laughing and reassuring,
while you -  panting, terrified -
would rather become an eternal wooden supplicant
than give into his human need.
Why did you run?