Julie Unplugged

The Rain is Safe

It is raining again.  Cold, bleak – the weather I would suspect

or call ordinary in January or February, not

March-when-it-is-supposed-to-be-Spring-in-Bakersfield.

It seems fitting, though, in my recent loss coated life. 

Katherine and I just finished creating the Sound Design

for “Anne of Green Gables” – I enjoyed collaborating

with her to create something special for her show.

Last week she managed to somehow get me off my butt

and into my car and through the door at BCT

and onto the stage where a certain flat was

calling my name. “Paint me, paint me, paint me”

came its hedonistic cry.

I managed to mix up some paint colors and get

some trees started. I was feeling pretty inflated

about the whole thing when I started slapping some

grass on the flat and proclaimed, “I

am procrastinating."

“What are you procrastinating about?” she asked.

“This flat needs to be fixed, which means I need

to do some more dutching and I don’t want to dutch.”

I groaned and got off the ground with all the grace

of an elephant covered with pitch.

I trundled off to the paint room for the dutching

material and took out some ancient paint, perfect

for the task, and started what is probably my least

favorite set building job on the planet.

This would only be my third time doing it – and I

keep getting better each time, now that I have taught

myself some tricks, but it was still so not fun for me.

I sat on the floor, fixing the flat.

A memory flooded my brain and tears sprang into

my eyes in response. “It’s a metaphor for my life,” I

lamented in a  particularly transparent moment backstage.

It was a moment like this - hole ridden flat that

couldn't simply be painted, it had to be repaired,

it had to be coaxed into beauty, it had to be

more difficult then it was supposed to be

when I agreed to paint it in the first place.

I can not remember what sparked the thought, but I remember

who was there. I think only Kevan really heard me. He isn't

around to hear me anymore, to catch those clues to what

is taking root in my inner life.

I smooshed paint around and thought, “Can’t patch you up,

my friend,” and then, clear as a bell I heard “Sunday in

the Park with George’s Dot begging George, “Tell me

what you feel………..” And George answering…

“You know exactly how I feel.”

I looked at the wall and responded.

In this exact moment, I feel hopeless. I feel tired. I feel like

I am clinging to memories of one perfect afternoon – and

don’t know if a little patch here on the foundation – if there is a

foundation at all – will mean anything, anyway.

The rain is light and steady. Cold. Dagger whispers of

melting ice on my skin.

It is safe to let it touch me. It is safe to feel these feelings.

It is right to be transparent. It is right to let the light

and warmth wait for a moment so that I may come

to know them even better.

Les Femmes Poem #2 + Photo

The inspiration for this poem, again, was the photo entitled: Anguish

This poem is about fear of the unknown. No, this hasn't
happened - instead it is something I fear will happen
if I actually spoke what was on my heart.

Instead, fear has paralyzed my voice from speaking
what my heart feels in this one particular arena
and I stay frozen, worried - that if I got brave
and spoke, this image and these words would result.

Bare. Lost. Alone. I.

Spoke. My. Love

You. Laughed.

Left. Me.

Bare. Lost. Alone.

Les Femmes Recap - Anguish + Red Drips

This weekend I had the incredible experience of performing
some of my poetry at Les Femmes Artistes.

I was so inspired by this "assignment" that I gave myself
a rather strenuous artistic workout, which eventually
included a trip to Los Angeles for a photo shoot with
an incredible artist-photographer-cinematographer
named Leigh Vega.

Some of the shots she took assisted my creative process.

This is one of my favorite photos ever taken of myself -
and several poems were born from it.

The First is entitled:

Red Drips

Red drips from the wound, reawakened
Reminders of lives lost
Loves tarnished
The disappearance of hope

Blood splatters mock me
You will never again
Bring forth life
Red drips from the wound

My womb
My wound
Silent

More attention, Later

Katherine managed to somehow get me off my butt and into my car and through the door at BCT and onto the stage where a certain flat was calling my name. “Paint me, paint me, paint me” came its hedonistic cry.

I managed to mix up some paint colors and get some trees started. I was feeling pretty inflated about the whole thing when I started slapping some grass on the flat and proclaimed, “I am procrastinating” to Katherine.

“What are you procrastinating about?” she asked.

“This flat needs to be fixed, which means I need to do some more dutching and I don’t want to dutch.”

I trundled off to the paint room for the dutching material and took out some ancient paint, perfect for the task, and started what is probably my least favorite job on the planet. This would only be my third time doing it – and I keep getting better each time, now that I have taught myself some tricks, but it was still so not fun for me.

I sat on the floor, fixing the flat. Tears sprang into my eyes. “It’s a metaphor for my life,” I lamented in a particularly transparent moment. I can not remember what sparked the thought, but I remember who was there. I think only Kevan really heard me.

I smooshed paint around and thought, “Can’t patch you up, my friend,” and then, clear as a bell I heard Dot begging George, “Tell me what you feel………..” And George answering…. “You know exactly how I feel.”

I looked at the wall and responded.

I feel hopeless. I feel tired. I feel like I am clinging to memories of one perfect afternoon – and don’t know if a little patch here on the foundation – if there is a foundation at all – will mean anything, anyway. And so, I will leave this entry like I left the flat. Unfinished, and waiting for more attention later.

Welcome Spring

The air held that slight crispyness that says Spring or Autumn or beginnings.

In the spring, the leaves start to poke their green fingers into the air… “is it safe yet?”  There is a freshness that Hank, Buttercup and I tapped into as our ten feet collectively and individually slapped the pavement along

Alta Vista Drive

.

I saw plum blossoms kissing the branches hello, I felt the wind lightly flirting with my face.  I felt complete contentment for the first time in a couple weeks.

Last night at our Artist’s Way group, I could not stop tearing up. Everything was about emotion.  It got to be annoying after a while, even for an emotion junkie like myself.

Yet today, that emotional outpouring cleared the way to such pure “me-ness.”

We walked along the bluffs and I was struck once again by the magnificence all around me which is so often blurred by cluttered air.  When emotional weather batters the skies, clarity follows.

When emotional currents singe my spirit, I need to remember this moment.

I watched a woman with a big-I-don’t-know-what-kind-of -dog walking along the path with an exercise stroller empty-of-child.  The toddler was leaping ahead of her on the path and it made me smile in recognition. I walked to the lawn so my dogs wouldn’t get energetically out of whack because of the big-I-don’t-know-what-kind-of-dog and watched them relate to each other and to the bluffs, the path, the air.

I was reminded of this quote, from Teilhard de Chardin which I have been meditating upon today: "We are one, after all, you and I, together we suffer, together exist. And forever will recreate each other."

I sit here now, at my computer, and revisit the moment. I can hear the birds singing their songs of spring, slightly different melodies and all equally lovely.

I take a deep breath and welcome Spring.

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My eyes are salty and I am numb and I keep bumping into Igor Stravinsky.

Everywhere.

I wandered into the Bakersfield Museum of Art (free Friday, y’know) and there was that passionate Russian composer, peering over my left shoulder in the exhibit by Art Sherwyn, a local artist who also teaches at

Stockdale

High School

.

I want to call him and ask, “What is up with Igor Stravinsky and why is he haunting me?”

The last time this happened it was Edna St. Vincent Millay. She bugged me for weeks and I finally read some biographies about her, poetry, etc and she let up on me.  Not a moment too soon.

I bought a CD last night with 5 Stravinsky tunes – but I want more. Anyone who can compose music for a ballet that causes fist fights is someone worthy of heart-peering. In other words, peering into his heart and showing him mine.

Too bad he is dead. Just like so many other men I have crushes on. *Sigh*

Other than that, I met with Sarah Downie to film my part of her Documentary for Les Femmes Artistes. I didn’t cry too much. I enjoyed myself for the most part, didn’t worry about how I looked for a change.

Speaking of worrying about how I looked – the best part of my week was picking up my pictures from the Echo Park adventure, one of the greatest days of my life, the last day I was purely happy before I careened into this funk I am in.

Anyway, Leigh Vega is a brilliant photographer.  There is no doubt in my mind!

She captured exactly what I wanted. Raw, pure, gritty and surprising stuff surfaced.  A friend of Coryn’s is going to help me get reprints so that I can create poetry-photo art.

My favorite thing was how much Emma enjoyed the experience. I wasn’t going to look at the pictures, I was too nervous, but she just dove right in so I had to look. 

My single favorite is one I am going to use to illustrate my “In the Pit” poem. The pain on my face is so pure – I remember when she snapped it.  It was incredible.  It was a transcendent moment, I remember feeling like I was giving birth and totally forgot I was in this odd, garage studio in

Echo

Park

with Leigh in the room

All I heard was the soft moaning world music and wooosh! There I went and the photo is soooo raw and pure and painful – funny, how I love me being raw and pure and painful.

So, It Isn't Sondheim? A New World, Calls Across the Ocean - Hear the Song

So this is why I haven’t been alone for the last
week, not for a moment, unless I was driving in
my car on the way to be with someone or to do
something with someone.

Here I sit, angry that when my stuff got misplaced
on my computer my recordings from “Sunday in the
Park with George” are gone, too. Hadn’t noticed
until just now when I really needed to listen
to “Everybody Loves Louie” and “Move On.”

I clicked on the folder for “Songs for a New World”
and there is one flipping song in there, which I
am listening to right now.

Not quite the same. I mean, I love Jason Robert
Brown but he isn’t Sondheim.

I got a comment from Mylum this week. This is
his part.

“Hear my song, it will show you the way you
can shine.”

“Listen to the song that I sing….. you’ll
be fine.”

I’ll be singing hold on….. hold……. tight..

Here is my part…..

“I know its dark right now, but you just
believe somehow… that soon, there will be light……”

Tight, tight harmonies – such great music…. Oh,
here is the part I sang directly to Emma on opening
night. I remember Jacques saying, “You made Emily
cry.”  Good, it worked.

“Listen to the song that I sing
Listen to the words in my heart
Listen to the hope I can bring
And we’ll start to grow and shine…..”

And I sang the last line of the show….

“A new world calls across the ocean.”

Jenn and I met for our Artist’s Way group this
week and she was so dear to me, literally lathering
me up with compliments. I could have taken a bubble
bath in her praise. We need friends like this, don’t
we?

Hmmm. It’s funny. A few minutes ago I was feeling
bad. I turned on this song, bummed it wasn’t Sondheim,
and I am feeling so much better.

Love it.

Yes, that was me, incognito - in Belares Meets Bukowski on the Streets of Bakersfield

Sometimes I feel words, coursing through my

veins. Their impact is powerful but it isn’t the

words, it is the meaning and pulse and breath

that I give to them, my gift to the letters

assembled, marching or dancing or gliding

or scampering – together – across the page.

I choose – I decide, what meaning to give them.

I choose – to see it as a heavily laden

responsibility or a blissful privilege.

Me. I choose.

Yes, I feel these words, coursing through my veins.

Their impact is passion-imbued, love locked and bold.

Yes.

I can feel their power, their energy, their brazen

stares across a smoke filled room.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I had

been caught. My mask was ripped from my

face as I appeared in what might seem

to some a most unlikely setting.

Yes. I was there. I admit it.

I am proud. My words - pulsing, offering themselves

freely, without attachment.

Yes.

Writing Into the Thaw

I noticed something slightly unusual and
mildly interesting as I wrote today.  What
came from my fingers onto the keyboard was
an attentive narration of my morning as it
unfolded.

I realize, fifteen minutes after its initial
creation - writing like this is another
method of thawing myself out. The simple
act of forming words on the page allows
the resident stalactites of my spirit to slowly
and surely drip away.

Here is what I wrote:

"My morning pages wrote themselves today.

I am still not sure what I said, but I kept my
butt in the chair and I moved my pen. I know
there was stuff about Emma not wanting to
go to Hodel's and then eating like there was
no tomorrow and I know there was stuff
about my heart being numb.

And then at the end there was a moment
where I wrote something about missing one
particular moment and God said, "You still
have it" and I thought, "Oh, there is
my a-ha today."

Today I saw the sunrise.  I woke my daughter
nice and early so we can have a peaceful time
getting ready for school. Today I will go to a
drum circle with friends and watch
American Idol. 

Today I will continue to be as authentically me
as possible, feel what I need to feel, trust what
I need to trust.  I will keep putting one
foot in front of the other.

I hear a bird singing. I see the sky is brightening.
My coffee tastes bitter, good, hot. It warms my
chest as it moves through my body."

The writing itself is simple, precise, authentic and true.
Hmmm. I feel sweet, soft satisfaction in its wake.

A Funny Thing Happened

A funny thing happened on the path from the New Moon to the Now, almost Full Moon.

I completely lost site of my New Moon Mantra.

+ = + = + = + = + = + =

Bold and Courageous
Wild and Audacious
Passionately Prosperous
Infinitely ME!

+ = + = + = + = + = + =

Yes. That is it. That is here. That is now. That is my life.

When I invoked that, magic happened. When I forgot it….well, it wasn’t like I got crushed by the “bad stuff freight train” and there was definitely LESS magic.  Less oomph. So, here I go again!

It is never too late to start again. So tonight – right before midnight on March 12, 2006 -  I am starting again.