Wednesday, February 27, 2002

Missing

Missing Feb. 11, 13, 14, 16, 18, 21, 22, 24, 25, 27

Tuesday, February 26, 2002

Contradictions

critical writing, as it writes, looks at itself...

the screens I read and link to are full of contradictions - wonderful contradictions ... posting onto a site is both ceremonial and presentational, both imaginary and representative

writing to know what & where lie the opinion ... discovering what needs to be written in the writing, while writing

... one final contradiction is language itself: one behaves as if I am the creater and master of language knowing full well it is language which creates me ... (inspired by Sartre. Sartre on Theate p. 135-153)

Saturday, February 23, 2002

She dreamed

...

A beautiful village in full celebration, colourful flags whipping in the wind, lots of food & drink, song & dance, laughter & story telling. Friends calling out to me to sing and dance for it is my turn. I sing and dance finishing to much applause and laughter.

I go to the gate where my teacher wishes to enter & share in the celebration.

He is stopped by a group of guards.

He calls out, "Let me in I want to dance, sing and enjoy the revelries with all of you."

"You can't enter," they pronounce, "you are dead!"

I am shocked. I can't believe it. I am absolutely stunned. I want them to let him in. They refuse. I want to contact him and the guards let me out. I can get out but they won't let him in.

There, in front of the gate, sits my teacher singing. The moment he starts singing the whole village turns black & white as if his exquisite lament, expressing his sorrow, evaporates the colours around us and a grey fog descends down on the whole village.

All the faces of the people become expressionless & emotionless. Only I am animated and I turn to my teacher who continues to sing and I listen to the words.

Life is like the wind / Yesterday joy/ Today gone/ The wind that stops in the night/ Life is like the wind/ Coming & going / Nothing remains forever.

He gets up and turns to walk away down the path to another gate. Even though the path is full of people, all in black & white, he makes no effort to talk to anyone. His family and all the people he knew walk by him as he gently blows by them like a sorrowful wind.

He enters another gate to perform the ritual of leave taking. I can't accept his going so I try to give him the song of life but I can't sing. All that comes out of my mouth is a loud scream.

The emperor of the dead watches over him smiling and my teacher turns with tears in his eyes and with all his anger shouts out, "I didn't have a chance to say goodbye! You didn't give me five minutes to say goodbye. This is so unfair. Please, I am not dead. I need time to finish what I have started and people to see and this is all too sudden. Give me another chance."

The emperor replies,"You can't go back. Life & Death are not like that. You have to prepare before not after. You are now in this world."

"Please just one more minute."

"No!"

I heard all this and I tried to say goodbye but all that came out was a scream.

My teacher cried out with regret and anger; "Life is meaningless. What have I done. I don't want to die like this but what can I do! So many mistakes." He continued on towards the final gate where a gathering of black & white people waited for him embracing him singing and dancing.

I tried to join them but knew I couldn't for that was the place of the dead. I watched from outside the gate.

... That was her dream.

:: note :: ... Published with Permission ... It seems you don't even have to blog to be bit by the blog virus ... writings about death this past week, especially Waeguk, invaded the dream of one around me ... capturing a dream feels almost like putting that first snake you caught in a jar ... no matter how much you want to keep it, it must be released to live ... be careful where you release snakes ... more careful where you release dreams ...

Robert H. Goddard. "It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow." [Motivational Quotes of the Day ]

Wednesday, February 20, 2002

Mud-lucious

... outside the window ... sparrows chatter and flit from branch to branch ... teasing each other ... spring? ... what is about the passage of seasons ... mud-lucious


in Just-
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the goat-footed baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee


e. e. cummings (follow link for proper spacing)


... space is so important ... the space between people, the space between words, the space between lines ... relationship ... shape the space around you ... i do this exercise all the time (i rediscovered when working with pre-schoolers):
Look for things on the ground, pick one up and carry it for a while & then put it down somewhere, perhaps in a place carefully chosen, perhaps just anywhere. Then look for something new to carry... never end.


... this works in many environments & dimensions ... carried whiskey river whiskey river around for days as the last posting seemed many days downstream & it was about blog suicide / today was able to put it down next to mud-lucious with the other wordpoolplays found in the current of the rivertime ... 

Sunday, February 17, 2002

Closing Night

Scribblings after a dialogue with an actor the day after closing night:

the more I gave, the more I had to give, like some endless source

not really giving energy but my spirit - light

I hold a different colour & can I share what I hold

I enter the core of the space which is a creative place

a fullness of reaction, a kind of knowledge, opening myself

now I must close to live the life again

changed and richer for the experience



borrowed the gyre graphic from Visible Darkness : (he called it cheesy but I remember a Lou Reed quote: My shit are other peoples diamonds).

play with this / replace objective - subjective with audience - actor ...

play with more terms: energy /spirit /concentration /presence

the creative space

physicalization /fullness of reaction ...

Friday, February 15, 2002

metAmorfine

a delightful 21st Century theatrical adaptation of Ovid's Metamorphoses - metAmorfine - presenting the idea & concept of transformation through the physicalization of water, sex, drugs, music, and the apocalyptic and mundane events of life.



. . . from the director Neil Cadger: " . . . Truth is in continuous Transformation."[22.Kundalini, symbol 89. Transformation]" . . . My first concern was to try and find a way to allow the ideas to evolve, while working on things like rhythm and choral speech which obviously have to be done daily. Order and anarchy mingling inextricably. And now, just before the premiere I' m trying to take it further, changing, rearranging, looking for new shapes and frequencies. . . . ."

after the show articulating my feelings. . . akin to an intensely interactive google search . . . following seemingly random but intricately woven together facts, images, associative links . . . constructing a linear but deeply textured experience . . . mingling, looping, fragmenting the performers played with contrasting hues of alienation & ecstatic dance dipping into pools of ironic pleasure . . . Thank you Neil . . . Thank you cast of 17 wonderful actors and a musician. Much joy and discovery in the week to come.

Tuesday, February 12, 2002

Year of the horse

Year of the Horse



... honouring new year at favourite restaurant . . . 
"Wise men learn more than fools from the wise" (Fortune Cookie).
via

Sunday, February 10, 2002

metamorfine haunts

The show metamorfine continues to haunt . . . talking with an actor & finding the language to penetrate the experience returns over & over again to meditations on virtual reality, cyberspace, hypertext . . . how we see, perceive, feel, the space between us towards an understanding of (around/surround/inside/beside/outside) us...

Although written almost a decade ago the observations & questions are immediate:

Quote:Today's computer communication cuts the physical face out of the combmunication process. Computers stick the windows of the soul behind monitors, headset, and datasuits. Even video conferencing adds only a simulation of face-to-face meetings, only a representation or an appearance of real meeting. The living, nonrepresentable face is the primal source of responsibility, the direct, warm link between private bodies. Without directly meeting others physically, our ethics languishes. Face-to-face communication, the fleshly bond between people, supports a long-term warmth and loyalty, a sense of obligation for which the computer-mediated communities have not yet been tested. Computer networks offer a certain sense of belonging, to be sure, but the sense of belonging circulates primarily among a special group of pioneers. How long and how deep are the personal relationships that develop outside embodied presence? (Michael Heim . The Metaphysics of Virtual Reality, 102)

. . . fascinated by a theatre experiment that utilizes what the director describes as "frequencies" of ideas, I deliberately slow down to mingle logic & intuition, hoping to shape the experience . . . or maybe as Heim describes "indwell":


Quote: Heim argues that the key to navigating electronic text also includes the ability to slow down, to create and follow arguments with rational contemplation, to "indwell" in other people's ideas despite the ability to surf off to another person's ideas as soon as one encounters a link. Students need to learn to use the web (or whatever technology supersedes it next week) as a web of knowledge, not a cloud of data and cool sites to surf." (Heim. Co-opting the Clickable Classroom.)


. . . not only to "indwell" but also to expand, to embrace the daily acts of living . . . that is to evolve a deeper appreciation of life & death . . .

Saturday, February 09, 2002

found Pinter

... found on a scrap of paper advertising a Pinter play:
Though you go to the uttermost parts of the earth and hide yourself in the most obscure lodgings in the least popular of towns, one day there is a possibility that two men will appear. They will be looking for you, and you can not get away. And someone will be looking for them too. There is terror everywhere.

- Harold Hobson. Sunday Times May 25, 1958.

Friday, February 08, 2002

rePost metAmorfine

a delightful 21st Century theatrical adaptation of Ovid's Metamorphoses - metAmorfine - presenting the idea & concept of transformation through the physicalization of water, sex, drugs, music, and the apocolyptic and mundane events of life.

. . . from the director Neil Cadger: " . . . Truth is in continuous Transformation."[22.Kundalini, symbol 89. Transformation]" . . . My first concern was to try and find a way to allow the ideas to evolve, while working on things like rhythm and choral speech which obviously have to be done daily. Order and anarchy mingling inextricably. And now, just before the premiere I' m trying to take it further, changing, rearranging, looking for new shapes and frequencies. . . . ."
after the show articulating my feelings. . . akin to an intensely interactive google search . . . following seemingly random but intricately woven together facts, images, associative links . . . constructing a linear but deeply textured experience . . . mingling, looping, fragmenting the performers played with contrasting hues of alienation & ecstatic dance dipping into pools of ironic pleasure . . . Thank you Neil . . . Thank you cast of 17 wonderful actors and a musician. Much joy and discovery in the week to come.

The show metamorfine continues to haunt . . . talking with an actor & finding the language to penetrate the experience returns over & over again to meditations on virtual reality, cyberspace, hypertext . . . how we see, perceive, feel, the space between us towards an understanding of (around/surround/inside/beside/outside) us...

Wednesday, February 06, 2002

open image



Still from slideshow found at AI with the following caption:
Crimes of Hate, Conspiracy of Silence: as part of its Campaign Against Torture, Amnesty International focused on human rights violations based on sexual identity.

When we are open to an image, the image strikes us, moves us as an other, pulling us toward it while we draw it near. (Janus Head 3.2/ Editorial - The Image)

Tuesday, February 05, 2002

bend time

During the whirlwind of the daily, mundane world wind I pause to wonder at the line between flexibility and chaos. Dreams last night of friends and colleagues from a decade ago (politely catching up with our present day lives) wouldn't free me into the wakeful day. The night dreams more vivid than any day event. So I 'bend' the time of wakefulness into the time of lucid dream. Enjoying the enmeshing.

The last stanza of According to Pythagoras

. . .

The fundamental interconnectedness of all things
Is incredible enough, but did you know that
Hyenas change sex? The female mounted by a male
Just minutes before becomes a male herself. Then
There's the chameleon that feeds off wind and air
And takes the colour of whatever it's standing on.
Air transforms lynxes' urine into stones and hardens
Coral, that softly swaying underwater plant.
I could go on and on with these scientific facts.
If it wasn't so late I'd tell you a whole lot more.
(Michael Longley )


". . . You live your life as if it's real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

. . . Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep."
(Leonard Cohen Ten New Songs)

Monday, February 04, 2002

It matters?

The omnipresent nagging questions at the edge of every post & publish: Why blog? Why blogrolling? What is mine? It matters?

From one : But why blog at all, really? Why does anyone do it? To post these tiny fragments of a life, or links to sites that would probably be found anyway...all these variations of design and content, to what ultimate purpose? Sometimes I think it's a reaction to the tendency in modern life to stifle the unconventional, to muzzle the crowd so that only the mainstream and majority opinions are heard . . .

Another:

meg is still thinking

Conclusion #1:

This site is about me. Don't forget the crucial "about". It's a little word, but it makes a big difference. I am not my website.

Conclusion #2:

I love the internet. I love the medium and the possibilities and the potential and the people.

Conclusion #3:

Writing will always be my first love.

Conclusion #4:

I need to reconcile the things I love in order to be happy.

Conclusion #5:

If you are trying to read between the lines, don't bother. There's nothing there but white space.

Ethel : The usual copyright stuff applies, but I probably won't get enraged until I find a clone site with absolutely no attribution (which, by the way, has happened twice with some of my other stuff). Finally, if anyone's offended by anything on this site then please do notify me immediately. I like to keep track of those times when I get something right.

copyleft : We haven't given up our copyright on this article, but we have agreed to waive many of the exclusive rights a copyright normally bestows.

The final thought from:
Visible Darkness : I do believe that writing helps us figure out who we are becoming. The sense that we can know "what we have become" seems a bit foolish, because the flux never stops. Writing taught me that. I am never the same person who finishes writing something that I was, before the writing was begun. It's part of a process of change, of deepening and broadening the horizons. Of living. Because I am living, I feel and think. The two are inseparable. I write about both.

Sunday, February 03, 2002

a dream not read

The Talmud says: "A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter not read."
found myself Reading:

Snow. Snow white.
Sometimes during the winter, my fantasies weren't much different than my reality. I'd see a raven or I'd dream a raven . . . And each evoked the same aloneness, the same gaping separateness.

I'd seen an Indian boy a mile out on the lake, walking towards me, a boy with a red toque and a fur parka, perfectly placed in the light between the sky and the world, walking across the lake, across a bight white desert. His legs would move but he never seemed to get any closer . . . or further away.

Mary Kwandibens told me - that was before she stopped talking to me - that winter was a time of holding on, that the soul went underground to lie like a woman long and straight upon a bed of ice, to sleep and be restored, to rise up new and refreshed in the spring like a young girl.

But that makes winter seem like a time of peace and it wasn't. It was a horrible onslaught.


(Wendy Lill. The Occupation of Heather Rose.)

Friday, February 01, 2002

Prometheus&Nijinski

Creating characters of image & giving them voice:

Prometheus dancing with light:
as a child camping
he placed the ends of sticks
into the fire
waving them about
creating ember patterns in the darkness
now driving on a west coast trail at night
(raining, of course)
he named himself firefly
the firefly
just as years before
at the birth of his son
he decided on:
Prometheus ___________________________________________________


creating characters of image & giving them voice:

Nijinski dancing with nijinski:
she loved nijinski
her lover once remarked
she moved like nijinski
when they had fondly parted ways
she rarely thought on him but was obsessed with nijinsky
at first she bumped into him unexpectedly
at the antique store during her visit to Amsterdam
at the tram stop on her way to the backery
then she arranged to meet him at the library
next she started seeing him in the apartment
reflected on the surfaces around her
on the blank screen of her broken TV
in the bathroom mirror
finally she started calling herself
privately, secretly & once publicly
name please?

nijinski _______________________________________________________