Hibernating

I feel like I've entered a little bubble in the life-time continuum.

In my bubble I am not very social. I talk to a few people, a lot. I talk to a lot of people, not at all. Maybe it's an anti-social bubble.

In my bubble I forget what day of the week it is, if the month is over, what month is it?, and if there is somewhere that I am supposed to be, now, tomorrow... yesterday.

In my bubble I drink coronas and eat the cold pizza that seems to reproduce itself in the new refrigerator. Imagine that--a refrigerator that generates cold pizza and beer. Stop the presses...

In my bubble I listen to mix cds and recordings of David Sedaris reading his stories. These things make me happy.

In my bubble I forget to worry about work or next year or career or future. In my bubble there is today, but tomorrow is blurry.

In my bubble I am very bad about returning phone calls and emails. The reception is really bad in my bubble.

In my bubble I am allowed to be cryptic.

I'll get back on track soon enough, I promise. If you see me, maybe give me a shake or two.

"Back to earth Citymouse! Don't get all poetic and soft and dreamy on us. Remember what happens when we start talking to the moon?"

Wake Up Sleepy-Head

Wow, ummm, fancy meeting you here.

It has been the week to blame everything on "the move".

Missed emails? Unreturned phone calls? Unexplained disappearances?

"Well, I AM moving".

And there is some validity to that, but it's done, it's no longer a valid excuse, so if I try to tell you that or even some bunk about unpacking just look me in the eye and tell me the statute of limitations on move excuses is over and done with.

All in all it went very smoothly. Perhaps more tales to tell on that some time. I love the new place, I think overall it is just a healthier, brighter, sunnier place to spend my downtime. And I think overall, that is a really good thing.

Hey, you know there was a parade yesterday? The floats were coming down my street at 9:30 am. Not the sight I expected to see in the morning, but a big garish float does always make me smile. March on, paraders.

I am also in that semi-regular phase where I question what my blogging intentions are and what is fair game to write about. More importantly--what is not fair game to write about.

I'm thinking on it.

But things are good.

Waffle!

So, this is an issue I have: I think when I make a decision it has to be a forever thing. That once made up, my mind can't ever change. It's sort of crippling.

Because sometimes I choose nothing rather than making a choice I may possibly want to change someday. I mean, I throw around this idea that I have issues with commitment. But as I think about it--my issue is not so much that I don't want to commit to something, it is that I am terrified to ever de-commit, so rather than de-commit I don't commit at all.

Directing is different. Productions are fleeting. The decisions I make for a show only last four weeks or so. Film would be hard.

That said, there are some things I've committed to. A life in the theater. Not eating meat. Living in a city. Relying on public transportation. Friendships.

Seriously though, I don't know what it would be like to de-commit from one of those things. Maybe it would be great for me to move to small town, USA, to get a job at a ummm--place where people in small town, USA work--to buy a hybrid car to get me around, to maybe start off slow by eating free range chickens then eventually move on to the juicy red stuff.

Maybe I would be happier. Maybe my hair would be shinier. (That's what all the nay-sayers said when I stopped eating meat. Something about shiny hair.)

I suspect I won't ever find out.

Sometimes I am prodded towards major decisions by others.

I am moving this weekend. My cousin decided to move and I thought that staying in a healthy, happy roommate situation was worth the hassle and stress of moving. I think this is the right thing.

So, I'll be MIA for a week or so.

I really hate moving. But I am trying to look at the bright side of what the move means.

New scenery. A back patio. A well maintained home. A chance to weed out my life. A healthier living space.

Of course these things will only happen if we make them happen. But I'm trying to be a grown-up these days. I think I can handle it.

Uncharacteristically Optimistic

I wish I was the moon tonight.

Scratch that.

I wish I was IN the moon tonight. With Marybeth. In her big moon. Hanging out and drinking wine and stuff. "Hey, don't mind me. I'm just hanging out. In the moon. I'll stay out of the light I promise."

Yes, I saw Tempest and MB in her moon. She was lovely. Many beautiful moments in the show.

That was Friday.

Saturday was a perfect day during which I didn't once have to get on a Metro--everywhere I needed to be I could walk to. I love those days. And the weather was pretty near perfect, so really, it was a stunning day.

We did out second round of 365 Plays over at Catalyst, and kicking and screaming all the while, we had fun. A fabulous group, musical accompaniment, Tom Ka soup for lunch, b-b-b-b-beautiful.

(Rorschach has a cool plan for their 365's. If I could, I'd be there tonight. If you can, you should indeed.)

And then saturday evening, dinner and wine on a porch 'round the bend.

Porches are amazing. They represent everything that is good and true about a neighborhood. Good food, friends, wine, conversation--ach!--the goodness of it all warmed and overwhelmed me.

Sunday afternoon was another wonderful day outside with finger sized canapés, theater supporters, and catalyst lovelies. Plus an adorable little one. And a cat.

Both days made me realize how rarely I pause to appreciate the wonderful moments in my life. The amazing friends I have around me. Close friends that I see several times a week. Friends that I run into once every few months but still delight to see. New friends who I finally had the chance to discover this year. Friends who make me smile because they cross the line of humor every time I see them. Friends who I have known for twelve years. Friends who I have known for a much shorter time though it feels like forever. In the best possible way.

I spend so much time fixating on what I don't have. But there is so much that I do have.

Note to self: remember these things. Appreciate them.

Good Stuff

I saw both Blue/Orange and In On It this week.

You all should go see them. Really, you should. Because I said so.

They are, together, a wonderful testament to what can be done with well chosen words, incisive direction, committed acting, and talented designers.

They are both virtually set free.

It is everything else that makes these shows.

In On It was particularly moving because I just love these guys so much. They are two such excellent human beings and I am pleased and proud to see them doing such marvelous work.

It makes my heart swell.

Marine Biology (read at your own risk)

The other day someone asked me:

"So, besides the whole theater thing--what are your other interests or pastimes?"

"Like, hobbies?"

"Yeah, what do you do in your spare time?"

"Besides see or read or work on plays?"

"Right."

[Awkward pause.]

"Ummm, right now? Well, I'd say I go to movies but I haven't been to one in about six months. I like going to concerts but I haven't done that in half a year either. I read, I do, but that still means I sit and think about the order of words which is essentially the same thing as doing theater. I love to travel but can't afford to do that, so, ummm, yeah."

[Longer, more awkward pause.]

"I listen to podcasts...?"

I do, I listen to podcasts. This is about the only stimulus I take in that gives me even a fleeting chance of being able to make conversation with a breathing, thinking, human being. This is not a guarantee of interesting conversation. Not at all. It usually means I try to tell you about the story I heard on New Scientist about super novas in another galaxy but I forget most of the interesting parts so you end up hoping I'll just stop talking.

But really, it was really cool. A really cool story.

Sigh.

But every once in a while, there's a pay off.

Today on an NPR books they mentioned an experiment that was done in the mid-1960s where a woman and a dolphin co-existed in a partially flooded house together. On the broadcast, the author of the book (which is actually about many essentially "failed" experiments from that era) explains that the project ended up shrouded in scandal because of something that happened between the woman and the dolphin. The host gave him an opportunity to elaborate, and he said, "No, I don't think you (want me) to."

So of course I have to look that shit up!

"In the summer of 1965, (Margaret) Howe lived in the company of "Peter," a male dolphin, 24 hours a day, six days a week in a simplified flooded house. There are surreal photographs of Howe working efficiently at a desk or chatting on the telephone, eyed curiously by a dolphin as her whole environment is sopping in 24 inches of water.

"A dolphin is more like a shadow than a roommate," Howe said. The thing would stay by her all day and never leave. She could talk on the phone for hours. The dolphin wouldn't get bored. It wouldn't leave. As weeks passed, Howe was subject to depression and crying jags. "I have found that during the day I will find any excuse to get out of the flooded room," she wrote in her diary. (Lilly meanwhile was contemplating a flooded car for the future bi-species society.)

Peter began exhibiting courting behavior. He lightly nibbled Howe's legs, getting erections, and rubbing against her ardently. As a matter of expediency, Howe took to giving the dolphin hand jobs. Peter would "reach some sort of orgasm, mouth open, eyes closed, body shaking, then his penis would relax and withdraw." Dolphin libidos being what they are, this had to be repeated two or three times; then, finally, the dolphin could concentrate on its lessons.

That made for a pretty good conversation stopper. Otherwise the experiment's results were debatable. It seemed that Peter learned to say "hello" and "ball" and parrot consonant sounds. When Howe asked Peter to get the ball, he would often get the cloth."

You didn't need that image, did you?

No, well, neither did I. But now we all have it. In our heads. Present. Indelible.

Happy Tuesday.

Waste Not

I am an ugly American.

This is the packaging that came from my $6.99 lunch special from the Asian place across the street from the office job.

Yes, I hate me too.

Check this out:
1 plastic container with lid for the mock chicken and vegetables and brown rice
1 plastic container for the green salad
1 small plastic container for the carrot dressing
1 wax paper bag for the veggie spring roll
1 wax paper bag for the soy and duck sauce
1 wax paper bag for the napkin and fork
1 paper sleeve for the chop sticks
1 brown paper bag for the food
1 large bag with handles for everything
1 styrofoam plate
1 fork, 1 knife
chopsticks
4 napkins

Seriously, it's disgusting, I know.

I have a weakness for the mock chicken at this place, it tastes and feels nothing like chicken, which is why I like it. I never understood the kinds of fake meats that do a good job replicating the texture of their authentic versions. I don't eat meat because I don't like it. Why would I want a decent approximation of the stuff?

But they are really awful about the amount of paper they generate. I'm not sure what I could do to avoid it, since I only get take out. I think my best bet is just to stop going there. It's indulgent in every way anyway--too much paper, too much food.

It makes this not-at-all shocking. And it should be shocking. It really should.

Tupperware anyone?

Flawed

Remember this quote? First posted in January, snatched from an email from my friend Laura, from "Awakening Loving-Kindness", by Pema Chodron:


But loving-kindness toward ourselves doesn't mean getting rid of anything. It means that we can still be crazy after all these years. We can still be angry after all these years. We can still be timid or jealous or full of feelings of unworthiness. The point is not to try to change ourselves. Meditation practice isn't about trying to throw ourselves away and become someone better. It's about befriending who we are already. The ground of practice is you, or me, or whoever we are right now, just as we are. That's the ground, that's what we're here to study; that's what we come to know with tremendous curiosity and interest.

Now, as you all know I am very much not into "self-help" or anything having to do with energies, mantras, chakras, smelly incense or candles, or any other assorted new-agey-ness. Not that there is anything wrong with these things. They are just not my bag.

But this quote? This lesson above? I think I need to tattoo it on my forearm.

The list of grievances I have against myself is staggering.

I procrastinate. I forget to pay my credit card bills. I have credit card bills. I decided years ago not to go to grad school. I waffle over whether I should have gone to grad school. I am judgmental. I am impatient. I swear too much. I hate to open my mail. I lose things. My room is filled with piles of stuff. I am horrible about staying in contact with people. I never remember to write thank you notes. I never remember birthdays. I don't go to the gym enough. I don't cook. I can be dismissive, loud, opinionated, stubborn, needy, selfish and indecisive. All of these things.

Oh, yeah, and I'm too hard on myself.

Right.

What if I fixed all of these things? Who would I be then? I wouldn't be me, surely. Would you all recognize me? Would I recognize myself?

I think sometimes, I could stop doing what I am trying to do with my life right now, right this moment, and it wouldn't matter. In time everyone would forget that I ever did it at all. I'm not a writer, so nothing would be left for posterity but google hits. Six people would be right there to do it instead of me. Hell--eighteen people, 300 people. Maybe they'd all do it better than I do.

And then other times I get overwhelmed by the joy of the creation. By how much all of this matters to me. Maybe too much. So much that I get angry when I think people are doing it wrong. I don't get angry that puppies and kittens are getting abused everyday but I get angry when I see work that I think is indulgent or dishonest or self-important. It makes me wonder about my priorities. I do get angry about Darfur and reproductive rights, so at least there's that.

A crises was due any day. This shouldn't come as a surprise. And to be clear--this is not me feeling sorry for myself, or asking any of you to feel sorry for me. Just thinking out loud.

And, umm, not to change the subject but...

Only four more chances to see DALI.

Insanity Whatever

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

This quote is attributed to both Ben Franklin and Albert Einstein depending on where you search on the net. And is it just me or is everybody referencing it all the time?

Come on. This isn't actually the definition of insanity, by medical standards.

I think we all dig it because it is something we understand and can relate to. Repeated patterns.

So what do we call doing the same thing over and over again all the while knowing that the result is going to be exactly the same as the time before? Stupidity? No, less judgment. Maybe complacency?

Anyway.

I was up in New York for a couple of days. Highlights included seeing the lovely Miss Heisler as an adorable little English boy with a bucket on her head in the visually stunning and ultimately quite satisfying Coram Boy, perusing scripts at New Dramatists (big cushy chairs! free coffee and tea! so many scripts!), eats and drinks and catch up with benjamin, chimays with the former speech writer, thai food and baby time with trish and sonja, and lots of phone calls to people I missed meeting up with.

Next time, for sure. All y'all.

Now, stolen from Hannah's blog, the latest greatest humor from Mr. Valley. Enjoy.

And if you don't have plans for the evening and are just itching to get out, swing by one of the many hill establishments supporting Eastern Market tonight. Two guesses where I'll be.

"I'll jack you up!"

Too many lovers in one lifetime 'aint good for you.
Too many heartaches in one lifetime 'aint good for me.

I can't stop listening to Feist. Anyone want to go see her on June 13? I know, I know, I'm a concert tease, but this time I mean it.

[heavy disco dance beat]
Don't try to tell me that it's over!
I can't hear a word, I can't hear a lie!
[Key change. Mellow resolve.]

Love it.

I saw Titus Andronicus last night at The Shakespeare Theater.

By intermission the jury was still not out. But somewhere during the second act the production won me over. For me--the bolder the better with this show.

And it brought back slews of memories. I forgot how much actual text was in Titus!. Each time they'd get to a recognizable portion I'd get this little thrill inside "Oh they are going to sing now!?" They didn't. Not even Vengeance, Rape and Murder.

I also caught myself laughing at moments where laughter was (kind of) inappropriate for this production because I was thinking of our show.

"When is Lavinia going to do the charades? Why isn't Stiles singing death pie yet? And they are so not as hot together as Joey and MB..."

I actually underscored much of the already underscored show with Shawn's music--in my head.

All in all it was a rather odd experience.

And I was reminded just how amazing Shawn's adaptation of the show is. Smart, funny, and so complete in its storytelling.

Titus! will rise again, someday, I am sure. You can't keep a show like that down.

Ways of Seeing

So the parental visitation was lovely. We ate, we talked about eating, we planned where we were going to eat. And we did some other stuff too.

The highlight meal, hands down, was dinner at Rumbero's (thanks Andy) where I had the best ceviche ever (admittedly, I only recently started digging ceviche). Also great fried yucca and tostones. And a pisco sour that was quite scrumptious.

After seeing my show (which my parents enjoyed, I think) we headed down to U Street for dessert at Creme. While the service was a bit tepid, the deserts themselves were beautiful and indulgent, and the jazz quartet that started playing as we arrived provided just the right amount of underscoring.

The couple sitting next to us looked as if they were on a first date (though dinner at 10:30pm seems like a bad plan for a first date). While I have not been on an actual date in about five months and should indeed be working my way back into that arena, I suppose... eventually... watching the awkwardness of the ritual made me happy to be sidelined.

On that note, I received this email from my best friend T in NY yesterday:
Subject: Set Up?

I have a potential set up in mind, if you're interested. Can you send me a digital photo?

P.S. You owe me a phone call.

We've kind of tried a set up once before, though the NY-DC thing proved too tricky to navigate with someone I didn't even know. I suppose if we'd really hit it off we might have worked harder. But we didn't, so we didn't. Nonetheless, I give her credit for continuing to try. And I know she always has my happiness foremost in mind.

I hesitated on the picture since my two most recent photos make me look like a boozy party-girl and a spaced out dancing queen, both of which I love (thanks hanvnah) but neither of which strike me as great first impressions.

Anyhow--next morning I get this:

Subject: Nevermind

When I mentioned the match to [T's husband], he said the guy was a jerk and not to fix you up with him. All I knew was he was a wealthy, smart lawyer, but I guess that's not everything.


Ahhh, how quickly we follow that which is bright and shiny. The wealthy part doesn't matter to me, actually, but the smart thing has traditionally been my achille's heel. Even when paired with the jerk thing. Which happens. Often.

T's husband called it a mile away. T was wooed by the sparkly object.

We need to be better about ACTUALLY seeing what is ACTUALLY there.

Actually, Actually. Right?

Anyhow--one more review for DALI. It's in the Express today, so grab a copy if want to see it live and in the flesh.

More Market Memories

I can’t find my Voice of the Hill article about Eastern Market itself. I thought I remembered the circumstances surrounding the time that I wrote the piece—where I was living, who I was dating—but it’s not showing up in those months.

Did I dream it? Good lord, the memories do grow murky with time.

Anyhow, I did find a piece I wrote during the holidays about shopping at the outdoor market. It was fun to do.

Yeah--I didn’t actually buy any of the things I said I bought. So, right--as my parents read this and wonder about what happened to their work of art... I didn't, did I? I know I didn't get the lantern slide for my brother. But, artistic licence, right?

Odd to me how trippingly off the tongue I am able to talk about “my boyfriend”. Jarring considering the who, the what, the when, and the what has happened since.

I sound much less jaded, I think. I sound optimistic and hopeful, don’t I? I sound young. I sound almost... bubbly.

I do sound kind of dorky.

At least that hasn't changed.

That’s gotta be the goal of the near future. Find the optimism, right?

A Day At The Market
by City Mouse
December 2002

When I was ten, I started my Christmas shopping in August. Come December, I had set up a gift-wrapping station for my entire family, and would craft elaborate ribbon sculptures for shiny packages. I baked three varieties of Christmas cookies, and a batch of Hamentashen (a tribute to my father’s Russian Jewish roots). My family wondered where I had come from.

But things changed soon enough. By the time I hit my early 20s I was as jaded about the holidays as any member of my generation. So last year, I decided that I simply would not do
it. I had just made a “quality of life” move from New York to DC. Washington meant happiness, but it also meant an empty pocketbook.

So come holiday time, I wrote notes to everyone explaining that I did not feel right celebrating a season that I no longer believed in. But the week before Christmas I chickened out. So I out headed to that great vortex of modern civilization, the mall. I have no recollection of what I bought anyone, but I remember that I wrapped them on Christmas morning. Several hours and several hundred dollars of credit card debt later, I was resolved. Never again.

This year, I head instead to the Sunday Market Flea at Eastern Market. I live on the Hill, so a trip to the market means little more than rolling out of bed around 11 a.m., slipping on glasses and sneakers, and trekking over to 7th Street.

First on my list: Mom. She is famously easy to buy for, because she is really, truly happy with anything that reminds her of her kids. My mother took up photography around the time my brother and I left for college. She loves purchasing photos almost as much as she likes taking them. I journey over to the first photographer’s booth I see, Troy Plair Photography. Much of Troy’s work is black and white and focuses on his “found art philosophy.” It is evocative and interesting, but not quite right for my mother. I select a print instead for my best friend--a photo that is simple enough to avoid sentimentality, but clever enough to pass New York standards.

Next up is the North building, to seek out an artist I had seen there earlier in the year. Sure enough, Victor Kinza had a booth adjacent to the entrance. Victor specializes in a Russian style of printmaking called “Lubok,” an age-old method of engraving that employs carving, printing, and painting—all done by hand. His work resembles that of Marc Chagall--a favorite artist of both of my parents. I love what I see, and after much time poring over the work, I decide on a print called “Moon.” They will love it.

Grandma’s next. I head to another of the several photographers’ booths that pepper the Hines Jr. High schoolyard. Grandma is pretty traditional in her tastes. John De Fabbio’s display of photos featuring DC’s monuments manages to twist the traditional just enough to provide a fresh perspective on the Washington landscape, but not enough to forsake a sense of reverence. I choose a photo of the Washington monument covered in construction scaffolding for Grams.

Now for the tough ones — my boyfriend and my brother. Both of them have very definite tastes, and neither really needs anything. My brother seems a perfect candidate for one of Tom Rall’s Lantern Slides, preferably a vintage shot of the American West, where my Yankee brother has spent a good amount of time and many rolls of film. He is also a budding photographer, so the historical relevance of the slides will not be lost on him.

As for the boyfriend, I wander over to the CD booth on a whim. The selection is impressive, but trying to pick out a CD for the boy is just short of absurd. He is incredibly specific in his music tastes, which indeed runs the gamut but seem to be understood only by him. I look through the boxes and am tempted by the selection of world music. This may in fact be a whole new genre for him—so I pick up one CD of Spanish Boleros, one Zydeco disc, a selection of Celtic music and two Bolivian/Andian CD’s. Now if only we knew how to dance. I leave the market and take some mental notes of additional unique ideas, especially for those hardto- buy-for people like aunts and co-workers and exroommates.

My picks for “Gifts for People Who Seem to Have Everything”:
BoxBoys’ Demented Decoupage Boxes. Especially good for younger sisters and cousins. The boxes are small and whimsical, decorated with everything from the cast of “Friends” to quirky mermaid images. They are perfect for holding jewelry, spare change, and anything else small and precious.

Light Switch Covers. Covered with images from the annals of black history, these make for a unique gift idea. And if a picture of Muhammad Ali or Malcolm X are not your thing, he has a good selection bearing replications of well-known paintings and other more symbolic images.

Shea Butter. With names like “passion,” “sexy” and “heavenly,” these may not be quite right for grandma, but they make a heck of a gift for anyone else. I tried the Shea butter on my hand. It melts smoothly and evenly into the skin, and smells and feels wonderful. The Epicurean Soap Company that makes it also sells “bath balls” (bath salts), massage oils and natural scented soaps.

African Masks. Not a small investment, but for the right person, a worthwhile one. The masks come from seven different African nations. The man selling them rattles off the names and I catch Mali, Guinea, Nigeria, and Cameroon. Sure to be a one of a kind gift.

Geeda’s Hand Poured Candles. The colors are rich, and the craftsmanship is apparent. I overhear the vendor talking about pouring the candles over the stove in her kitchen. Now that’s impressive!

Time with a Psychic. She sits at a table in the North building of the Market. And honestly—who hasn’t wanted to try this sometime?

The amazing thing about the Sunday Market is that it’s never the same place twice. People know about what they are selling and will gladly tell you about it. So ask, and browse, and buy. You never know which dealers will be there next week!