This is the text from a writing excersize in the workshop. I was very much continuing the work I’d done here, but enjoying letting the power of storytelling enter a little more. The final text I performed, which I’ll post one of these days, was somewhere in between in terms of flowery storytelling language and stark physical imagery.
I was struck at birth by the shaft of Ares. It’s true. The gods on high looked down and across time and saw me, barely formed. Perhaps one smiled or one frowned, perhaps they were spiteful or bitter or joyful or pleased; I don’t know. But I know Ares (or, perhaps, the warriors of Ares, his phalanx of gleaming, armored troops, which – in the end – is close enough to a mortal such as myself) drew his bow, notched a piece of wood, straight and true, and let fly his arrow.
It was a poison arrow.
Continue reading 'Workshop writings – an intermediate stage'»
(From tonight’s workshop. I’m rather pleased with how this piece came out, and think the metaphor I tapped will be fertile ground for future work.)
The audience is seated in a circle. I have intertwined male and female symbols drawn on my sternum in red/brown marker, partially obscured by my top. Two performers throw me on stage by my arms. I address the audience, making eye contact while prowling the circle.
I was struck at birth by the shaft of Ares. It’s true. And this was a poison arrow. Now, let it be said that the weapons of Ares are not poison to all. Walking with Ares does not always mean death and destruction. But, for me, it was a poison arrow.
Continue reading 'Ares and Aphrodite'»
What a change from Sunday, eh?
At work, I told the admin assistant not to come in because she was sick. I then left to go to the workshop, and everything sort of fell apart, culminating in one of my bosses threatening to fire the admin assistant. (No one was fired, fortunately.) This morning we had a Meeting with both of my bosses, the admin assistant, and myself. While I’m still not happy how my boss handled things (threatening the admin assistant’s job was way out of proportion for what had happened) my bosses had really valid points about how I and the admin assistant had let the office slip over the past couple of months. They did manage to say a few things we’re doing well, and I do know that this isn’t the end of the world and it’s a learning experience and all that mumbo-jumbo that will make me feel better a month from now. But, for right now, I had my nose rubbed in a number of things that are ligitimately my fault, as well as a few that aren’t (but are difficult to extract from the lump of things that have gone wrong).
(Amazingly enough, getting that all out helped a little….need to just keep reminding myself that things will look better – or, at least, less bad – with every passing day.)
I’m also frustrated because I wanted to be able to focus on this workshop, and not on my job. But that’s kind of difficult, now. I’m still trying, but I know I’m bad at compartmentalizing and the stress about work is definitely spilling over into feelings of inadequacy as a performer and as an artist. (Not to mention as a woman…) I realized today that I’m uncomfortable as J and as R. For example, this morning, in the Meeting, I was feeling awkward in boymode because of my boobs and how I was sitting and wondering how obvious it was that I was wearing a bra. Then, during the workshop (in girlmode) I was feeling awkward becuase of my boobs and how I was sitting and wondering if I looked like a boy who was feeling awkward about his boobs. I knew this before, but never quite in such stark relief…
(Thinking happy thoughts. Thinking happy thoughts. Thinking happy thoughts.)
(Trying to, anyway…)
-R
Today we focused more on stories from the body. We each had a big sheet of butcher paper and were told to draw the metaphors of our body. My ended up with a balloon head tied with string to balloon boobs and string arms, all attached to a weight keeping the balloons from floating away. Hanging from the weight was a bucket filled with perscription pill bottles, and at the crotch was a bunsen burner heating a thermometer to the bursting point. (Can you tell I have body and sexuality issues right now?)
We performed a semi-improvised piece based on an action. Mine was awkwardly rubbing my crotch, as if wiping something off your hand. The (general idea of the) text, with changes/additions/subtractions made on things I think would work better, didn’t work well, or I just forgot:
Mmmmmmm.
MMmmmmmmmmm.
MMmmmmasturbation.
Continue reading 'Second day of the workshop'»
The shadows were long across the bed, the dark deep purple of the sky just after the sun sets. Her neck fit my lips perfectly and when our eyes met I started to cry. “Why are you crying?” she asked, and the not-knowing made me cry all the more. Her neck tasted of her and of the salt of my tears. At last I was able to say, “I’m stronger when I’m with you. I’m happier when I’m with you. I’m better when I’m with you. And I don’t want to be without you.”
Comments (0) 
Themocracy