Worms, Roxanne. Worms!

So the corn has arrived. We get a bunch of it in our CSA basket every week. And it is good. But I hate shucking it because there are these hairless caterpillar-like worms that invade every ear and sometimes, I don't know how, they make their way out of the box and onto the floor where when I don't have my glasses on, it looks like there's a curly noodle on the floor, and of course, I forget that every time I bend down to pick up a curly noodle these days it's usually a worm and so I'm constantly picking up these worms and freaking out. Ack! It's the touch of their skin that is so shocking. When my daughter mentioned this phenomenon to one of the farm interns she seemed truly offended. Like how dare we speak ill of the corn. Cue Children of the Corn.

But then also: there's the peeling back the husks and anticipating the worm. And finding the worm and removing the worm - without touching it! Without touching it! 'Cuz honestly, they feel like they would just pop like a ripe cherry tomato or a piece of bubble wrap. It's not right. I don't remember this from when I was little and my family had a big garden. But maybe it's because we lived next to a big agro corn farm that most definitely used pesticide and our corn prolly got dosed when the spray drifted our way. Good times.

Jeanette Winterson: Keynote Address 2009 TCG Pre-Conference

ACTivate Change: Jeanette Winterson from Theatre Communications Group on Vimeo.

Thank you, WB.

A Starting Place or Learning To Let Go and Mean It

A man in our society is not left alone. Not in the cities. Not in the woods. We must have commerce with our fellows, and that commerce is difficult and uneasy. I do not understand how to live in this society. I don't get it. Each person has an enormous effect. Call it environmental impact if you like. Where my foot falls, I leave a mark, whether I want to or not. We are linked together, each to each. You can't breathe without taking a breath from somebody else. You can't smile without changing the landscape. And so I ask the question: Why is theatre so ineffectual, unnew, not exciting, fussy, not connected to the thrilling recognition possible in dreams?

It's a question of spirit. My ungainly spirit thrashes around inside me making me feel lumpy and sick. My spirit is this moment dissatisfied with the outward life I inhabit. Why does my outward life not reflect the enormity of the miracle of existence? Why are my eyes blinded with always new scales, my ears stopped with thick chunks of fresh wax, why are my fingers calloused again? I don't ask these questions lightly. I beat on the stone door of my tomb. I want out! Some days I wake up in a tomb, some days on a grassy mound by a river. Today, I woke up in a tomb. Why does my spirit sometimes retreat into a deathly closet? Perhaps it is not my spirit leading the way at such times, but my body, longing to lie down in marble gloom, and rot away.

Theatre is a safe place to do the unsafe things that need to be done. When it's not a safe place, it's abusive to actors and audiences alike. When its safety is used to protect cowards masquerading as heroes, it's a boring travesty. An actor who is truly heroic reveals the divine that passes through him, that aspect of himself that he does not own and cannot control. The control and the artistry of the heroic actor is in service to his soul.

We live in an era of enormous cynicism. Do not be fooled.

Don't act for money. You'll start to feel dead and bitter.

Don't act for glory. You'll start to feel dead, fat, and fearful.

We live in an era of enormous cynicism. Do not be fooled.

You can't avoid all the pitfalls. There are lies you must tell. But experience the lie. See it as something dead and unconnected you clutch. And let it go.

Act from the depth of your feeling imagination. Act for celebration, for search, for grieving, for worship, to express that desolate sensation of wandering through the howling wilderness.

Don't worry about Art.

Do these things, and it will be Art. - John Patrick Shanley, preface to the The Big Funk

Ghosts

Just saw the woman who gave me the worst news I've ever received in my life. Pushing her grocery cart through the store. I passed by her once and swung back around to look at her again. She looked so familiar and yet I couldn't quite place her. She passed me in the baby food aisle then turned her cart around maneuvering it between me and an elderly gentleman who was contemplating the cereal. Looking at a jar of Pumpkin pie puree, it came to me. We passed each other in the frozen food section. And again in dairy, in produce, in cheese, in meat and in bread. And each time my stomach turned over and my knees felt weak. I couldn't stop looking at her face.

Because what never occurred to me before is this: what it must be like for you. To deliver such news over and over again. To say those words so many times, so many times that you'd never remember all the faces of the people you'd delivered it to. Words so devastating that if any of its receivers passed you in the grocery store and remembered you, they'd pretend you didn't exist. Would wish you did not. What conversation is to be made?

Oh, it's you. Remember when you...made that little call...quite a time wasn't it?

What must it be like to be you? You whose job it was to bring the news, to make the call, to hear the sobs on the other end of the line, to say the I'm sorrys, the no one likes to hear such newses. You who've said the same words so many times that I could hardly think you'd still mean it - the I'm sorry. The calm voice cool with professional distance and sincerity tinged with the absolute impossibility of the outcome of your news being anything other than what it was. The sentence irrevocable. It was you who said the words, so powerful - no incantation could be stronger, more life altering. So powerful, that even now, 7 years after, the sight of you makes the blood automatically drain from my body and I feel like collapsing on the floor. Over and over. Baby food, frozen food, dairy, produce, cheese, meat, bread.

Checkout. Checkout. Checkout.

This falling down inside as I remember that moment on the phone. And the realization that it is only that very moment that I share in common with the person who heard those words as they exited your mouth. That the person who heard those words was washed away by them never to surface again. Such are the effects of time travel.

The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl

Was it ever. A calamitous, completely avoidable environmental disaster of biblical proportions perpetrated by Washington and executed by scoundrels and idealists alike. Steinbeck does not even come close to conveying the horror of the dustbowl. This is page after page of misery and ever-deepening despair. You have to admire those who stuck it out. Egan's prose is a bit boiler-plate, but he gets the story and does a fine job of connecting how politically driven it was. Want to see the origins of our environmental and farm policies? They start here.

'Drunk by Noon' is on my summer soundtrack

Edgy, light, and infectious. Gets you moving, feeds your head.

Drunk by Noon by The Handsome Family

Wanna be Startin' Something by Michael Jackson

North American Scum by LCD Sound System

Pina Bausch

I've been thinking about this poem all day since I read about the death of Pina Bausch and watched clips from her work on youtube.

The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? - Mary Oliver

You can see the rest of this piece here.

Egon Was Wrong

Dave Eggers talks optimistically about print, the internet and the viability of newspapers.

To some extent all the doom about the printed word is a class thing. Wealthier kids who can afford their own phones and computers are probably spending more time online and in some cases, less time with books, but the kids we work with are honestly pretty enamored of books and newspapers. It means a lot to them to have their work between two covers, an actual book that they can see on a shelf next to other books. There’s a mystique about the printed word. And the students who come into 826 every day really read. These middle schoolers have read everything. Judy Blume came into the center in San Francisco one day, and she was mobbed. Fifty kids swarmed her. They practically tackled her. Same thing with Daniel Handler, who writes the Lemony Snicket books. These are by and large kids whose parents immigrated here from Latin America, and English isn’t spoken at home. But they’ve read all thirteen Lemony Snicket books. So I have optimism about print because I see these kids and how much they love to read. And they work on our student newspapers and anthologies and a dozen other print projects. They really have a thing for print. And I do too. I fear sometimes we’re actually giving up too soon. We adults have to have faith. And we have to rededicate ourselves to examining what in any given issue of our daily papers is really speaking to anyone under 18.

Fractured Fairy Tales: Not Quite Happily Ever After

We knew it couldn't be true, didn't we?

Didn't we?

Some day la la la la...

...la dee da la dee da la dee da da da.

Well...maybe some of us didn't.

I thought about this picture this morning when I realized that several of the women in my exercise class look remarkably similar. As in I couldn't tell them apart. As in even after I stared at them for several minutes. Which makes me wonder about the aesthetics of plastic surgery - does each doctor have his or her own personal signature? You can tell a Rembrandt from a Da Vinci, no? So taking into account the limitations of the materials themselves, every doctor would presumably have an individual style based on his or her surgical skills and personal aesthetics and of course, of course, taking into account what the client wants. But I'm just wondering, ultimately, whose vision gets realized?

The photo is part of Dina Goldstein's Fallen Princess series. You can see more of her work here.

The project was inspired by my observation of three-year-old girls, who were developing an interest in Disney's Fairy tales. As a new mother I have been able to get a close up look at the phenomenon of young girls fascinated with Princesses and their desire to dress up like them. The Disney versions almost always have sad beginning, with an overbearing female villain, and the end is predictably a happy one. The Prince usually saves the day and makes the victimized young beauty into a Princess. - Dina Goldstein

Hot Fun

It has arrived. Summer break. School's out. Yesterday was the first day and I barely survived. There was screaming and tantrum throwing and biting and refusing to eat food except for cereal and oh I'm so bored there's nothing to do and chasing each other around the house and jumping on the bed and refusing to take naps and looking for lost stuffed doggies CARTER HAS IT CARTER HAS IT and opening up the bedroom window and talking to the birds instead of napping a whole hour of not napping and then falling asleep and watching Scooby Doo and making up a board game and fighting about who's going to carry the water and the snacks when we go out and geocaching and grocery shopping and begging for Fruity Pebbles and Cinnamon Toast Crunch because there's a Lego car inside What? This isn't a really a Lego and they only print all those cars on the box to make you think that there's going to be different ones inside but it's only the same car and getting the lego car out of the excessive packaging and riding bikes and taking a bath and playing babies and complaining about wearing a sweater and reading books and cleaning up toys and making noodle soup for dinner and carrot soup for lunch and protests about eating leftover mac and cheese and how much liquid it actually takes to revive the sad, slightly fading orangeness of the stuff and going to the CSA for our vegie basket and more fighting and more tantrums and more biting and losing the lego car and then cupcakes CUPCAKES I'M NOT WAITING I'M EATING MINE NOW MOM SHE'S NOT WAITING SHE'S EATING HERS NOW THAT'S NOT POLITE MOM MOM MOM I'M TOO HUNGRY I CAN'T WAIT I'M EATING MY CUPCAKE NOW NOW NOW and fighting and biting and a time out for the 2yr old and playing instead of getting ready for bed and brushing teeth and playing instead of going to sleep and finally finding the missing stuffed doggie CARTER HAS IT CARTER HAS IT and reading stories about fairies and good dogs and hair pulling and giggling and slaps in the face and kicks in the head and snuggling. It's morning. And it starts all over again.

Goodbye to An Earthshaker: Cora Walton ("Koko" ) Taylor

DIY: Business Cards

This month I've been Ms. Workshop Girl - taking a workshop every Saturday. Today I took Jordan Ferney's letterpress class and printed my own business cards. There were six of us in the class and the cards were done all together on one polymer plate. So we divided the printing up amongst ourselves and each printed a chunk for the whole group.

Here's a partial proof of mine:

Pretty groovy, eh? You should see what they really look like. I'm very impressed with myself.

Check out this article on Letterpress printing in Forbes, it explains a little bit about the process.

POMO Child Rearing

How would you bring up a child if you took the lessons from postmodernism literally? The young Swedish writers Athena Farrokhzad and Tova Gerge present a postmodern parenting guide, a matricide or an infantile declaration of passion. Please read it biographically.

Do not pretend the child exists as a subject with any greater relevance than all the other surrounding objects with pretensions to subjectivity – be they present or absent.

Let your child incarnate whatever object you need at that moment. Every time you put its body to some new use, exclaim: "I baptise thee... (umbrella, shoehorn, broth, dialectic, etc)."

White On White: The Pilot

White on White: The Pilot
(just like being there)
Eve Sussman & Rufus Corporation
Winkleman Gallery
New York
May 15 – June 20, 2009
Opening: Friday, May 15, 6-8 PM
Gallery Hours: Tuesday - Saturday, 11-6 PM

Screamin' Greenies

Our new strategy for getting the kids to eat vegetables is pretty easy. For us at least.

1. Everything goes on the plate. A little bit of something on every kid's plate.

2. You don't have to eat it. But it must be allowed on the plate. Not near it. Not on the napkin. Or flung across the room. On the plate.

3. No editorializing. No complaining about the food on your plate. This is perhaps my favorite piece because it applies to adults too.

4. You can run, but you can't hide. You don't even have to finish what's on your plate. But if you don't try the vegies, there will be no dessert (on week nights it's no bedtime cookie).

We were doing okay until the night I put broccoli on the kids' plates.
Olivia: Do you expect us to eat that?
Elizabeth: Why, yes, I do. I think you'll like it, Olivia.
Olivia: Okay.
Carter: I am not eating that.
Olivia: Me either. I'm not eating that.
Elizabeth: Okay. But no ice cream for dessert.
Carter: That is not fair.
Elizabeth: I know. Here you go.
Carter: (sobs, if he could run and hide from it, he would) I am not eating that!
Elizabeth: Are you afraid of broccoli?
Olivia: laughs
Carter: Yes!
Elizabeth: You're afraid of broccoli? What will happen if you eat broccoli? You think you'll explode?
Carter: (pouts and laughs) Yes!
Olivia: (sobs) I want ice cream.
Elizabeth: Then you need to try the broccoli.
Olivia: I wish I was a toy so I didn't have to eat broccoli.
Elizabeth: They look like little trees. (I know! Who has this ever convinced!) Try it.

Olivia hesitantly takes a bite. Screams. Spits it out.
Carter: I am not eating that!
Elizabeth: Then there won't be any ice cream.
Carter: I'm done.
Elizabeth: You're not going to eat your spaghetti?
Olivia: Me neither.
Elizabeth: Why not? You don't like the broccoli. That's no reason you can't eat the rest of your food.
Carter: I don't want to eat. Can I be excused?
Elizabeth: Okay. But there won't be anything later.

Olivia hangs on thinking she'll convince me. Eventually Roger and Marshall leave the table. It's just me and Olivia left.

Olivia: Mommy? I'm hungry.
Elizabeth: There's spaghetti. And broccoli.
Olivia: I can't eat that!
Elizabeth: But you can have strawberry ice cream after.
Olivia: I can't eat it!
Elizabeth: How about you just try a small one?
Olivia: No! (pause) Okay. (takes a nibble)

Roger returns with Marshall (who's now in his jammies).
Olivia: Daddy! I'm eating broccoli!
Roger: That's so great, Olivia.

10 minutes later.
Carter: Can I have some ice cream?
Elizabeth: Did you eat any broccoli?
Carter: No.
Elizabeth: I'm sorry. No dessert.
Olivia: I love broccoli! Can I have more?

Nick Cave: Sound Suits @ YBCA

Not that one. This one.



Nick Cave Soundsuits Collaboration
YBCA Galleries
May 28 - 31

Amy Krouse Rosenthal

Planning on taking the kids down to Hicklebee's in San Jose to see Amy Krouse Rosenthal this afternoon as she continues her Spring Tour. I read Encyclopedia of An Ordinary Life 4 years ago (that long ago!) and loved it's off-the-wall humor and observations. Cookies: Bite-Sized Life Lessons is also a family favorite. Check out 17 Things I Made, The Beckoning of Lovely, and The Story So Far. I'm very inspired by this work right now as I think about the kind of art I want to make and how I want to engage with my community.

Two Weeks In

It's getting lighter earlier these days. Every morning the day breaks just a little bit sooner. I know this because every weekday morning for the past two weeks, I've been purposely (as in on purpose) getting up at 5:30am and going to...Pilates Cardio Camp.

Can I tell you about the boot camp?

Did I mention that the boot camp means getting up at 5:30 am five days a week. 5:30 am. 5 days a week. Some of you may be wondering what all the fuss is about. Well let me tell you. Getting up at 5:30am means going to bed by 10:30 pm. 10:30 pm. 5 days a week. This is difficult because, for me, getting to bed by midnight is turning in early. But I have done it. Most nights. And when I haven't boy have I paid the price. Like practically falling asleep by noon.

Yesterday was one of the worst days. Tired. Very tired. I drove down to the San Jose library with both kids, parked the car, got out the stroller, almost put Marshall in, but then I thought to look for the books I was returning. Not. There. Left them. At home on the counter. Lost my glasses for 20 minutes this morning. It's not right. People tell me this effect will pass. I'm not so sure.

I planned to take pictures of my 5:30 am face. But I forgot. See at 5:30 am I can barely remember to dress myself. Let alone bring essentials like my wallet with my license just in case I get a good morning pull-over by the cop who is permanently camped at the freeway exit going into town. Anyway, you probably don't want to see my 5:30 am face. But I'm kind of curious about it. Like does it have a vaguely shocked, discombobulated expression? Or is it simply too early to register much of anything beyond the physical effects of sleeping in the bed? Like the slightly smooshed cheek from the pillow? Hair flattened and twisted? Eyes with a trace of crust? All of the above and then some? We may never know.

The camp is held 10 minutes away from my house. Which is a good thing. I can't get up too much speed and I can eek out a few more zzzz's before rolling out of bed into the shock of the morning.

The camp is led by a perky little trainer who reminds me a lot of Cheri Oteri. Cheri Oteri when she played that cheerleader along with Will Ferrell. Remember those skits?

Well. She's not exactly like Cheri Oteri. She's more like Cheri Oteri dialed down to three. Which is just exactly what you want at 6am. Elizabeth! Right on.

3 Days 22 Hours 23 Minutes Until Derby Day

Kentucky Derby Barbie

Day-After-Derby Barbie

Secretariat's Derby Win


Derby Day countdown continues here.

Okay. I Can't Stop Listening to This.

Tap into your inner Eno here.