blog del fuego

The Ballerina-Ninja Strikes Again

2010-09-12T07:27:00.000-07:00

I love it when I burn a lot of calories at school.
Makes me feel like I'm in the right profession.
I love to move. So do most young people.
So when the art teacher proposed her students
take pictures of my theatre students
dressed in wacky costumes
dancing around and acting crazy
I knew it would be one of those days
where I get to sweat in class.

The day before the shoot
I'd let them know the art students were coming
we talked about the difference between
staged movement and natural movement
and experimented creating movement ensembles
such as giant "machines" in which one student
begins some mechanically-inspired
motion and accompanying noise
then every one else in turns must add on to this contraption
in a way that connects
Rube Goldberg-style
to the whole

One such configuration was so successful
I dropped a mini-lesson on
guerilla theatre and proposed
that we go recreate the machine
in the hallway while everyone switched classes
blocking the lockers
for some serious attention

Of course they jumped at the chance
I composed 15 "Sorry, Ms. McD, 9/8/10" notes
while they practiced the interconnected machine
with all its boops and whirls and ducking heads
while chickachickachick
arms went robotically overhead
feet bonked together systematically
One boy's arm cranked around
pulling another toward him
which in turn rotated a girl inward and outward
It really was a doozy

Imagine 15 kids, ages 10 to 17
(I teach 6th THROUGH 11th in these two wild classes)
working in obviously well-though-out, complex unison
to create serious magical nonsense
in a muti-body amalgam
while students switch classes
on some typical Tuesday

Definitely a hallway traffic stopper

Smiles busted some faces nearly off
as they came back inside
fresh off their first act of guerilla theatre
"What's that called again?" they asked
"We have to do that again," they insisted
An attention junkie myself, I totally understood the feeling.
"We should do one EVERY DAY ALL YEAR!!"
"Oh, no," I said, "You gotta keep your audience on their toes,
that's part of it. We'll discuss this tomorrow, get to class."

The next day, photo day,
I greeted my 2nd and 6th hour students
(the ones who would be photographed
by the advanced art kids)
at the door wearing a bright blue
explosion of feathers on my head
(one of those clownish wigs
you get in tourist shops in New Orleans)
I watched the low-level shock melt from their faces
as I reminded them of our assignment today
told them to get on some interesting get-up
and then line up to go outside

They quickly donned the boas,
simple masks, plastic roman helmets, cat ears,
tails of various kinds, rainbow hats,
berets, sparkling vests, and fairy wings I keep on hand
in a giant messy pile behind the "curtain"
backstage in my classroom.

I handed out silk dancing ribbons
to those who wanted one
Sean went straight for the big ole
djembe drum I keep in class
I brought the "little drum" --
a small doumbek who also lives at school

My students looked like old pros
They were brave and exploratory
They experimented (as directed) with both
natural and theatrical movement
One kid went from playing basketball
to posing like a wrestler with his eyes crossed
One had a conversation with a tree
Another stood in our school garden
swirling his ribbons around over and over
in different patterns

I walked around loudly approving
of the ones who were genuinely artistically engaged
and ignoring the ones who
treated this like whatever free time.

"Awesome, Bryan--
I can see a whole story in your movement
no wonder they are taking pictures of you."
"Ty--you are like art in motion--
a living moving sculpture--wow!"

It worked. They sure crave that praise.
Everyone got going.
The art students gravitated around
the most electric-energy spots,
something we later discussed.

I sat down and played drums with Sean.
Sang a little even.
I told him the truth: "What is surprising me is how
you really know how to listen while you play.
You create space for me to solo and you notice when
I am creating space for you.
That is so rare in a young drummer."
He's 13. He explained that both of his parents are musicians,
so he knows how you better listen when you play. Rad.
We talked about this later in class too:
I told the class about that conversation
and then asked who could connect that musical truth
to theatre/performance situations.

We'd only been out for about ten minutes when
Things started slowing down outside
creative juices going dry
I knew it was time for me to model
I stood up and announced to the art teacher
and anyone else who was in listening range
that I was "ready to make a spectacle of myself."
Ms. Adams knows and loves me and so she knew and loved
that this meant some serious action was about to go down.
So she announced it again loudly to all:
"OKAY, PHOTOGRAPHERS!
MS. MCD IS READY TO MAKE A SPECTACLE OF HERSELF!
TAKE SOME PICTURES!"

I got on top of a table with a silk ribbon in each hand
(in my sparkling feather wig, don't forget)
and pretended like I was a dragon posturing to all these humans
One of my legs was a tail, always up in the air behind me
I spun and shook my ribbon-wings and growled and pointed my toes
and whirled and writhed and devoured everyone with my eyes.
A student later said I looked like a ballerina-ninja.
Pretty fly.

Well this sure got my students going again.
I'd just raised the Madness Bar a hundred fold.
Slow motion fights with super-animated expressions
busted out everywhere.
Bird-humans started flying through the garden.
Sean hammed it up while he played.
I grabbed the shyest girl and got her up on the table
beribboned and echoing my motions from down below,
she began shaking with nervousness
and ended roaring with triumph.
The photographers started running around,
getting down on the ground,
snapping.

Oh, what would the principal say if he walked out here right now?

Back in the classroom, we through the costumes back into the pile
Wiped off our sweat on our shirts (YES!)
And debriefed

We got deep
One of those intensely wise and inspired
spiraling whole-class one-mind conversations
about how we begin to believe
we can't act certain ways around certain people
or in certain settings, how we tend to our inner selves
our realest thoughts our truest movements
thinking we're too weird or crazy or excitable
but when we go head and let it out
become a dragon or dance like a fairy or whatever
and we do it without self-consciousness
with pure joy
for the love of expression
in celebration of life and freedom
it comes off as the most natural thing in the world
true, some people can't handle it
even pretend not to see you
in all your strange glory
but that's not your problem
and if we let other people's judgements
about us and the world
run our lives
we give our lives to them

"Okay, beautiful people, it's time to go.
Keep it free, y'all," I said as they left.

Shy girl lingered.
Alone for a second before the next class came in
she looked me right in the eye
and said a "Thanks, Ms. McD"
that made me want to teach
ninja balletics
for the rest of my days.

backstage in 2nd hour

2010-09-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

In my theatre classes, I am The Director, and my students are The Actors.

All assignments lead to in-school performances where visiting classes come in to watch the show. School started not four weeks ago. The first show: silent theatre, has been running for more than a week now.

We made paper-plate masks in a super-janky version of the one-expression masks of Japanese Noh theatre, divided into groups, and created silent skits that rely heavily on physical presentation and humor. In every class (I have five sections) some groups got stuck and I created a plot; other groups went to town without my help. Once the skits were polished up in whole-class constructive criticism sessions, I introduced the idea that we'd always be making skits for performance purposes and now we had to create some kind of structure, context, and overall presentation for the skits to fit within.

In each class, I facilitated a group conversation that lead to the formulation of a plan. Since I'm interested in facilitation in general, I want to show you how this went. It's a useful structure for lots of group goal scenarios. Here's the script:

We start with the first question: How can we make this a theatrical experience as soon as the audience enters the room? Think for a minute. (Actual minute for thinking, timed with a stopwatch). Now we'll go around the table and I want each person share any old crazy idea. If you don't have one, say "pass," and we'll come back to you. If you don't have an idea for this, that's fine, just weigh in on what you like. Everyone should react actively to any suggestion you really love. If John says, "let's stand on the tables like statues until they are all seated and then go back stage" (John actually said this), and you think that is awesome, nod a lot and say YEAH THAT IS AWESOME. If you don't like it or aren't sure, just don't say anything, and we'll get a feel for what everyone likes and just not really focus on what everyone doesn't like. OKAY, now say every idea, even the stupid ones, cuz we can make the stupid ones into good ones, but we can't making nothing into something, got it? Okay, let's go.

Some ideas are collected: we should play some kind of music, we should have the lights out, it should be really quiet and then we should all bust out of the closet and yell at them and throw things (YEAH THAT IS AWESOME), we should hang stuff from the ceiling, we should all bust out from behind the curtain at the same time and yell really loud: THIS IS SILENT THEATRE (YEAH THAT IS AWESOME), we should all act like animals, etc. etc.

Okay, so what I am hearing is there should be some busting out and yelling and some kind of joke where we're loudly saying it's silent theatre, that's funny, I like it, okay. YEAH YEAH THAT'S AWESOME. I agree that we need to give the audience the idea that it's silent theatre in a creative way. Let's go with this. We're going to think for one minute about how this might work in a cool way and then we'll go around again. It's okay if not everyone has an idea, but let's all think first, 14 minds are better than one right.

Now everyone is eager to judge the idea we've all vaguely created, so they listen intently to the three or four who have an idea, and we hone in on something. I translate:

So one person goes in the closet, everyone else is hiding backstage. I tell the audience to sit down all boring teacher-like, then someone busts out of the closet loudly saying, HEY EVERYBODY WELCOME WELCOME GOOD TO HAVE YOU THIS IS A GREAT SHOW FOR YOU TODAY BUT GET THIS, IT'S SILENT THEATRE SO YOU HAVE TO...then everyone else busts out from the curtains, totally focused on this guy, fingers raised to lips going SHHHHHH in a stage whisper, SHHHH IT'S SILENT THEATRE!! And then he goes WHAT'D I DO? And everyone gets really mad but totally in a whisper goes SHHHHHH!!! And then he goes OH!! SORRY!! And then a few people go grab him and drag him backstage, hit him a few times while everyone says SHHHHHH again. Love it okay, let's practice it right now. You, go into the closet.

After we got that down, we repeated the process for in-between skit introductions and the ending. Worked like a charm every time, and every class came up with some wonderful wild nonsense.

So here's what I originally sat down to write:

Show after show went on, and I directed: too loud after skit #2, the pantomime in skit #3 needs work, everyone sit down except for them, let's fix it, the drums need more variety here, I can see Bryan poking his head out to watch during skit #1, April you came out too early, etc. etc.

The show kept getting better and the audience reactions proved it to my students. They got addicted to theatre in about 5 days.

One day, someone in second hour was absent. As soon as they got to class, I saw the audience coming down the hall. PLACES COSTUMES LIGHTS QUICKLY THEY'RE COMING. Three kids came out from "backstage" (behind the sheets I hung up across a line in my room) freaking out KYRA IS NOT HERE!!!! Don't worry, I'll play Kyra.

Well, went I stepped behind the curtains, I realized all of a sudden, with a shock of what was all-out Fear, I think, that I'd never ever gone backstage! I always edited from the outside. They could be making out back there for all I know!! What had I been thinking. I'd never even mini-lessoned about what goes on backstage, the crew, the whole deal, totally left out!

I stepped into a well-oiled machine comprised of fourteen 11-13 year olds serious about making theatre. Everyone was completely silent, excited, focused. Jacob watched the actors using a mirror and gave hand signals to Sean: there was one for GO DRUM and one for STOP DRUM. Emily and Norwood kept the curtain straight, Hunter handed skit #2 their props, I forgot to throw the monkey over at just the right moment because Kyra does that. They signaled each other to get ready and to open the curtains for incoming actors. They smiled the whole time. They even put the costumes back on the rack when they were done. It was stunning. Impeccable. Delicious. Divine.

After each show, we have a wrap-talk. Another whiparound where each person says one thing: first, what went right? Second, What could go better? Then I add anything else I saw. This day, I told them everything I'd thought: how I couldn't believe I'd never gone back stage or ever said anything about it and how impressed and in love with them I was for being so focused and on point. Y'all worked like professionals back there, and THAT IS AWESOME.

They agreed.

from Big Time to Bayou

2010-09-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

Since my adventures as a crazy theatre teacher somehow continue deepening in wildness, hilarity, and soulful surprise, I've decided it would be a crime to let them go unrecorded. Maybe the reason such great story fodder comes my way is cuz I'm s'posed to write it. Check this out:

On Thursday last week, pianist and composer extraordinaire Dr. Berthelot, music teacher at our school, my true love and flippinwickeddynamic drummer Scott, English teacher at our school, and myself, joy gypsy poet dancer songstress and the crazy theatre teacher played Jazz (that's capital J to you) at a humdinger of a fancy place: Nottoway Plantation. We played in the Mansion, which I kept repeating in a superoverdone British accent. "Hey," I said to a server who walked by,"we're supposed to set up in the Mansion, do you know where it is?" Got some giggles with my directions.

I decided to wear the fabulous slinky black dress I never wear and I'm so glad I did. First, because the room we'd be playing it was all white. Superhonkywhite. We're talkin' plantation white, folks: white floor, ceiling, walls, furniture, subtly accented with gorgeously elaborate bright bronze framed mirrors, fixtures, candleholders (of white candles) and whatnot. And second because it's the dressiest thing I own and everybody at this chic gig was in the latest of fashion, which looked to be sexy carefully disguised as cutesy-conservative, long hair, bright colors, all atop very high heels. The men were more nerd-retro, and there weren't very many of them.

It was a party for a local magazine that seems to be about the lifestyles of rich not-so-famous white people in Baton Rouge, so the setting was perfect! Don't blame Nottoway, though. The fantastically beautiful and well-run establishment caters to all types and has moved on from its historically dubious past to provide lots of great jobs and host all colors of musicians, guests, and diners. It would be a shame not to enjoy the joint in this new era. So I'll back off on the evil whitey jokes. I have some white friends; they're really great, I mean it!

(I promise this is about being a theatre teacher.)

No one in four-inch heels started dancing to our incredibly jazzytastic music, which was no big surprise. But when Scott started tappin that second line stuff and Berthelot went all N'awlins on his secret weapon--his trumpet--I could not help myself. In true flow, with no second thoughts about whether this action was appropriate for a musician, or for the exclusive catered party, or if Berthelot would die of embarrassment in the face of this affront to his professionalism, I kicked my sensible shoes off and cut a rug in the white ballroom amidst all the editors, photographers, writers, and their well-dressed guests.

I don't use the phrase "cut a rug" lightly, either. I got down, y'all. It felt easy, real, totally transparent. My ease, I believe, made the audience accept it with ease, too. When a manager came over I felt so good I had no question it was all good so I smiled and said, "Yeah, so the flutist doubles as a dancer." He said it was fantastic, wonderful, I was expressing externally what was happening internally in the heads of the guests via the music (I was like: whoa, when he said that), please keep dancing!

Booyah.

Well my wild freedom led to some great conversation with the tallest classiest suavest lookin' crew in the place. They better've been I suppose, since it turns out they were from Vogue magazine doing a photo shoot in Louisiana. One model was wearing a $13,000 dress. No wonder she declined my offer to dance! We got to talkin, she was from Brooklyn, I whipped out my perfect Jersey hoodrat accent and then we really got to talkin. And before you know it, I'd convinced these glamour gurus to come to my little bitty school in Plaquemine, LA on de bayou to talk to my students about traveling to Paris and Italy and their New York highstyle lifestyles.

We drank wine and giggled and exchanged info. They were going to a photo shoot in New Orleans the next day, and my school is on the way. I thought I'd lost 'em for sure when I said 8.30. I said, "Listen, I really understand if you wake up and feeling like, (**in that overdone British accent again**) 'Oh, deeyah, I am simply not done with my beauty rest; did we really say we'd go to that vile little schoolhouse?' " They protested that they were not like that, that they would love to come expand the horizons of the bayou children!

And they did. They showed up at 9.30, when my second hour class was mid-classroom-production, drums, flutes, silent skits and all, with an audience of kindergardeners clapping and squealing in delight. They caught the end of the show, we ushered the teenies out, called the other theatre class in and they sat up there in their mega heels and said all the most perfect things about doing what you love and about the importance of being able to play different roles in different settings. The divinely beautiful model even even spoke of the cellulite on her butt and thighs while the professional photo retoucher nodded emphatically! Hallelujah, praise them!

The Vogue posse's best advice to my smalltown crew was to travel, to go to college out of state, to study abroad, to expand your idea of the world by exploring it. Our students were simply abuzz with questions. It's rare that the Big Time comes down to the Bayou. It was a preciously exciting melding of cultures. A delightfully generous service. A simply dandy thing.

The Raven and the Rocks

2010-01-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

Two days later, we Louisianians drove to the GRAND CANYON where it was 18 degrees and windy as windy. We got there late, midnight late, so as to avoid any pesky fees, willed ourselves out of the van with tequila and accusations of weenie-ness, and poked around the visitor's center for a secluded spot where we could plop our sleeping bags down on the frigid ground for the night. We cinched our mummy bags up around our faces and peeped out at the stars like upturned slugs and cursed loudly each time we had to battle the frozen tundra in order to pee.

We woke in the early dawn to the sounds of two startling things: a roving heard of elk and a tour bus with rosy tourists looking down at us no doubt hearing the guide say, "And here is where the hippies who don't want to pay stay."

Believe them us, 30 cold toes is payment enough.

We scarfed some grub, read a harrowing story at our trailhead about a marathon runner who died hiking the unbelievably formidable canyon trails, then headed DOOOOWWWNN into the GRAND FREAKING CANYON singing "The Big Rock Candy Mountain."

Oh, how uncandylike the canyon was. It was like walking on Mars (and I would know): rocks, rocks, rocks, rocks, rocks. Red rocks, ochre rocks, pink rocks, white rocks, grey rocks, maroon rocks, striped rocks, rocks lined with crystals, with lichen, with hidden cacti. No birds, no sounds, dry plants few and far between, and rocks, rocks, rocks. Cold and rocky rocks. Rolling and round and flat and rigid rocks. Gargantuan towering rocks and teeny gravelly rocks and boulders and cliffs and rocks.

We looked on utterly perplexed by a dude coming up the trail, the only other person we saw that day, wearing only a T-shirt while we descended in long underwear, fleece sweaters and down jackets. What a freakin freak, we thought. Must be from Canada, someone said.

We went down for decades. Then We climbed the Horshoe Mesa. Just for variation. It was high and redder than most of the rocks around us. It jutted up from a flat shelf a few hundred feet into a horshoe-shaped plateau. Left our packs hidden behind a boulder and scrambled up the rockface. Yelled things from the top, threw rocks. At awkward spot, a chunk of red rock broke off in my right hand. A thrill of fear ran through me, my foot found the perch I'd been searching for, I clung hard with my left. A spill of dust and crystals jingled down past my face then feet then the 30 foot fall.

I heard the voice of the park ranger we registered with on the way in: DON'T take any souveniers from the canyon. But how all our friends at home would enjoy these small tokens of affection. They were busy at their jobs and here we were, practically on Mars, and crystals everywhere--thousands, millions, billions! So I pocketed seven or so, silently, and up and up I went.

When the three of us stood at the bottom again, we looked up at where we'd been. The mesa conquered, we marvelled at our physical prowess a minute. We chewed satsumas in the barren, empty, awesome landscape, feeling big and then small again, fragile, intimidated. In front of the mesa lay a deeply red sudan-sized boulder and a black and twisted tree, like a sculpture of contrasts against the massive mesa.

Just then, a big wild Raven came descending from the East. Black against the red, it hailed us loudly and dove down for the tree. It lit beside the boulder. It cocked its head. It looked at me, it spoke in a bold and penetrating sqawk.

SQAWK.

I looked at Keith, I looked at Scott, the Raven looked at me. I took the rocks from my pocket. I said to them: I took these crystals from the Mesa.

"I think you better go put them back," Scott said. Keith said, "I think so."

I ran, I stumbled, I threw myself upon the rock, climbed up, and quickly, lay the seven crystal stones in a circle.

As I finished, the Raven took wing--so darkly, so lightly--and left the way it came.

Canefields to Cowfields

2010-01-07T17:55:00.000-08:00

On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, we teachers--Mr. Stephenson, Dr. Erwin, and I, turned back into Scott, Keith and Bon(FIYAH) and left directly from school for California. We drove 30 hours straight through--from canefields to cowfields, all the way to Califor-nigh-ay, yes indeedy.

We showed up ragged at Alex and Jeff's house in one of those concrete-and-beachy-beach cities south of L.A. I hit the sack pronto, but the boys started laying down the funk as soon as I got curled up for a good 12 hour shut-eye. Jeff's jazzychillman drumming, Alex's deepgroove bass, and Scott's lickable guitar licks got my flute so hot and bothered it started yelling at me through three shut doors to get up out the bed and blow it right damn now. So not five minutes down, I upped and did. Sleep can suck funk's blue notes.

In sum, California rocked.

2009-06-12T12:43:00.000-07:00

austin, may 09

zora zen: snapshots of a buddha

1 denham springs, LA, july 2007 a la casa de mis parents,
kate and kids visiting, zora is 7

with a pink plastic kid's rake
a strange thing in itself
seven year old zora is meticulously raking
the oval back yard path my dad has created
by his own zenwalking
around and around and around

she rakes it clear of pine needles and fallen twigs
attends to the pattern she scratches from the dirt
sunburst even lines
she goes slowly and carefully
all the way around
she's been at it for twenty minutes
some humming, some lots of quiet
some speaking to herself about what she is doing
describing the moment as it unfolds
self-narrating
in her sweet-faerie seven year old voice without R's
i'm just waking the path, going vewy slow, it's vewy nice
and easy and fun, i'm just (sigh) sowt of welaxed and happy wight now
waking away, that's all

i am her sort-of audience, practicing handstands off to the side
but i imagine the monologue would be the same
with or without me
zora zen just practicing
today, it is the senselessly, meticulously beautiful
raking of dirt

suddenly, older boy-er brother antonio
gallumphs onto the trail
all heavy running feet and post-TV outside-now energy!!
HHEEEEEYYY!!!!!!
welcoming the day like a trombone and a timpani!
PUM PUM PUM
he grabs a branch and trails it behind him willy-nilly
it scratches new lines and brings leafy debris into the path
zora breaks from her trance to scream with indignance

TONIOOOOO! STOP, ANTONIO
YOU CAN'T WUN AROUND THE PATH ALL CWAZY!!
she is very stern
very, very serious
STOP! STO-OP! YOU AWE BEING CAWELESS

brother says in a kind, confused, and oh so brotherly way
zora, i'm just running around having fun
what's WRONG with that?

you can't go around the path so cawelessly
you'we going too fast and dwagging things behind you
you'we on the PATH, tonio!
WHY awe you dwagging things awound with you????

sheesh, i don't know

well, quit it, it messes evewything up, okay?
you have to welax and be mowe peaceful!

okay, he gives in, exasperated, whatever
he is a very good brother
he casts me a glance
i shrug to say: hey, i dunno, i'd give up too
he gets it

zora goes back to raking and monologuing
though it's a bit more didactic this time

you just have to take you'we time and pay attention to what you'we doing
the path is vewy special (sigh)

she looks around the yard
she eyesparkle smirks
she plops the rake down by a tree

okay, tonio i'm going to wun awound now!

and then she runs around the path
shrieking
kicking up the dirt
like a koan

2 austin, TX may 2009 a la casa de mi sister kate her kids,
i'm visiting, zora is 9

i kept dipping into the semi sweet chocolate thingies
over and over
till i thought
crap
i'm gonna have to make cookies
before my sister comes home
to justify the megadent i've gorged/gouged
in this bag of chocolate thingies

so cookies it was, vegan style
peanut butter soy butter whole wheat flour apple sauce
a few chocolate chips

zora zen sits on the counter kicking her legs
showing me where the sugar is
observing

our conversation gets stilted cuz i'm barely listening
i'm setting the oven to preheat and yanking out the cookie pan
at the same time
i get a little frantic looking for the flour
i spill some, i drop a spoon
okay, okay, okay, where...is...the...vanilla
i say as i look in the cabinet while opening the peanut butter

eyebrows lifted, eyes floating aloft
zora croons in a high and sing-songing and almost soothing voice
she shrugs, overly casual
she feigns a random thought

you know, aunt bonny
when i'm cooking, i like to sowrt of
(the Rs are coming in now)
wrelax and have a good time
just (little sigh) talk a little bit
whatevewr
just sowrt of...feel (another shrug) peaceful

i take a deep breath as she talks
noticing myself
noticing her
she's very sincere
all kindness and subtlety
i marvel at her wisdom
and even more so at her delivery
this 9 year old has offered her 28 year old aunt
a critique
with breathtaking
gentleness

hmm. yeah.
thank you for saying that
it's just what i needed to hear right now
i really have to remind myself to relax
especially when i'm cooking i don't know why i get in a hurry
i would much rather just talk and have fun and go slower
it probably makes the cookies taste better too

probably so

she smiles
we eat some more chocolate chips
we talk and eat cookie dough
we don't spill a thing

mississippi mud climbin

2009-05-26T13:38:00.000-07:00

tunica falls, MS
May 09

woodswalk with fine friends
we ran fleetfooted downhills and back up and back up and back up
waterfall watched
climbed down the mudrock to rescue the groundwater from plastic waterbottles
opening it to smash it down to pack it out
i unleashed a bright blue liquid into the creekbed
freaky
no one should be drinking stuff that color

i practiced lifting up
putting space between my joints
get some tree-clean air in there

i noticed how we breathed together
spun over fallen trees
cartwheeled in the creek
we climbed a muddy bank, steep, 20-25 feet
slid down
dubbed it mississippi mud climbin
rad

i asked
what is the smallest sound?
we quiet walked,
then wordlessly, we sat

birdsound
feetcrunch
water-fall
treewind

i watched a leaf
it spun down crazily
beautifully crazy--staying within some wild spiral
till the end, in water, casting ripples

chad said

i found the smallest sound:
the sound of the leaf landing on the water

i said

i was thinking it would be good to live like the leaf
plunging in, moving with every bend of the wind, free, trusting

chad said

yeah, so brief and crazy
yet with such grace

i said

then it ripples the water
changes things
its energy changes
maybe the fall is the life
or maybe the fall the time in between lives
in the other space
and the time on the water is the life, rippling out

scott did not speak
kept listening
quiet waters running deep

ABQ

2009-05-26T12:45:00.000-07:00

albuquerque, NM
may 09

good friend visit
former roommates leigh and patrick
in ABQ early this may
leigh on hiatus from lit PHD introduces
a new baby to the world, seamus
diapers and milk and tummy time
strollin baby hot sun baby bike wreck marathon brave baby
all baby all the time
patrick sighs
leigh rolls her eyes

i slid right in
sourdough whole wheat blueberry pancakes
fine cookery and crockery
i changed six diapers--my first six
(so pro mom and dad didn't even know)
early morning bike rides slow climbs up
pretty margaritas laugh like old times worn well into new
relaxed love comes in waves of trust and patience
we pick up zucchini, leave the wine out over night, tingle a bit
we walk foothills, cacti stick, leigh trusts me to carry seamus
13 days old
slung over my shoulder
squeaking like my new pair of shoes
each step we take

at west mesa high where patrick teaches
i performed my poetry
he got the mics out
we read what we wrote
i wrote:

albuquerque,

your sand-painted squares sit low, tell secrets
your black-eyed mountain eats morning sun
your windchime air smells like smoke and sweet ochre
your cerulean sky divides itself into cold nite
you seek the shadows, dig arroyos, sing the old songs
i hear you thirst for more, but you settle
be careful not to dry up, waiting for the rain

elf warrior emerging

2009-05-26T12:19:00.000-07:00

baton rouge, LA
may 09

walked around the garden district
in the median
under old live oaks sprawling shade
grey may day
i picked up a stick and swung it
got increasingly karatefied as i went
forgetting the neighbors
lost in a vague elf-warrior fantasy

it's amazing what proper Adults pretend not to see
teenagers absolutely ran from me
too much uncool to even gaze upon
might get turned to nerd medusa-style
28 year old jabbing and cartwheeling
down the city median
dangerous

oh but the 10 year olds understand me perfectly
they see the peace warrior, the ninja, the adult they dream of being
almost impossible: up in the trees, barking back at dogs
avoiding piles of dogshit with extravagantly agile albeit unnecessary leaps
swinging my staff so it airwhips
got my mind on my mission and my mission on my mind

peace warrioring--
pickin up trash and smiling conspiratorially
playing panpipes from the top of a magnolia
leaving flowers i made outta metal in mailboxes and plantboxes
leaving good books on ratty doorsteps
giving directions
singing

next time, i'm goin ahead and wearing my cape