Somewhere is Really in the Middle of Nowhere -- The Calumet Theatre and Charming Old Timers

I was thinking this phrase as I drove home last night. "Somewhere is really in the middle of nowhere." The stars were screaming at me from my car windows. The street lights were few and far between, and oncoming traffic courteously turned off their high beams as they approached.

I had just come from Shute's, an early 20th-century bar in the nearby town of Calumet, where the performance was. Dave, one of the singers in the vaudeville show, took me there for a beer and some karaoke. He sang new country songs that I had never heard before. But the audience seemed to be familiar with his choices, and pleased with his voice. "All right, now!" people yelled and clicked their boots on the old hard-wood floors, as he started singing a ballad about a man who is "just friends" with a woman but then the whole situation is changed by the most powerful kiss...an indication that they might be more than friends. Other country hits included, "Red Hot Mama" which had a verse that rhymed with "sauna" -- pronounced "saw-nah" here -- something that is very popular here in the U.P. Others spoke about housewives with carts full of groceries, and babies pulling at the ex-prom queen's curlers...stuff like that. The lyrics for these new country songs are hilarious.

I sang two Sinatra songs, one Frank, the other, Nancy. A blonde girl stood up as I was singing "These Boots..." and starting talking trash to her entourage of hot young men standing in the front, listening to me. I jokingly asked her if she wanted to stand up there with me, and be my dancer...she said, "I don't want to go up there with you!" then turned away to talk more trash. I asked her what her problem was...she gave me a look and walked away. The young guys laughed it off...I was a little tispy, I realized this when I got home...I lost my balance while in the shower, washing out my flapper hair-do...hard gell and pomade.



But my entourage was not the young hot guys at the bar, well-groomed and tan from outdoor sports, buff from the gym or construction jobs, possibly some of the "road guys" I see as I'm driving around town. No, they were not my people at the bar. My people were the old guys, wrinkled from time, conversation much more interesting, thoughtful men with love handles and large rear ends that folded over the bar stools they sat upon, faded blue jeans, and light-brown sun glasses that they wore inside the bar, old bikers from Minnesota -- Osh Kosh -- guys who had met Dylan and were friends with Arlo Guthrie. An old guy named "Ray" who told me "Just think of me as your Ray-of-sunshine because I'm everywhere...I'm shining everywhere for you, baby" and put his arm around me like 10 times. He was a charmer.


Ray and I had the best conversation that I've had since I've been here. He said how he was 80 and he prays every night, asking God to give him 20 more years. He said that he's not religious, but spiritual. Also he said how he came in just for a minute but stayed because he wanted to hear me sing. He could tell I was a good singer. He kept asking me over and over again, "So...you gonna sing next..." just like a kid asking "Are we there yet" over and over in the car on a long trip.

Before Shute's I was performing at the Calumet.

There was audience participation which went well, and a story behind it...
I ended up talking about Helen Kane and how she was a popular singer of her time...and then Max Fleischer stole her trademark "Boop-oop-a-doo" and her voice to make Betty boop. She then sued him, but of course he won. Anyway, I was telling this dog trainer in the back -- when she said I should have done the grotesque-"CUTE" Betty Boop poses (like porno poses) on stage -- about how Fleischer had stolen Kane's act then made this gross caricature of her persona and put it on a cartoon. She was an incredible singer/vaudevillian...and Fleischer had no respect. He made her persona (the one SHE created) into this bimbo, porn star, who on the first cartoon is depicted as a stripper more than a singer...
Grrrrr...you can imagine how mad Kane was as a woman and professional singer!..her phrasing was impeccable, she was a jazz musician@!

So yeah, I spoke a little about this before singing one of her signature songs, "I Wanna Be Loved By You" and had the audience fill in the "Boop-oop-a-doops" so that it would return to Helen Kane (me), the rightful owner...I even made them move their right shoulder a bit while singing as we practiced...and wink to be more saucy, sassy, flapperish...like Helen...
SO. I was accompanied by a piano player and my "invisible orchestra" -- which is the audience...I plan to do another one this coming Tuesday...and maybe hang out with another group of old guys...bikers, and such...

Hope to see ya there!

Telephone Message Radio Play...my old songs

I was staying with one of my best friend, Larry (Flower Vato), when he was making his KDVS Fundraiser Comp. I was intensely working on an essay for grad. school applications. I was having nightmares about Jesus when I woke up from Larry yelling in the room next to me.

"Holy Sh*T! IT'S BABY SHANNO! Hey, wake up!"

And sure enough, there I was, "Baby Shanno" on some old answering machine tapes of Larry's. I was 20. He graciously decided to put them on his CD, along with an impromptu song about my best friend's dog that was being immasculated and mislabeled as a "gay dog" by his gay "mean master man" owner. This was done at 19 with my karaoke machine.

Anyway, a friend who was googling me up here found my name on a KDVS playlist. It was from KDVS DJ Wonderboy, Brendan. I had met Brendan at Larry's one evening. We had Orangecicle drinks...and talked about the life of an artist and shared some great music.

SO>>>short message made long, here is the link with his show. My messages/songs kick off his show...which by the way, is great, inventive transitions for such a strange mix of music!!! He makes it work! or I should say, he works it!

http://www.kdvs.org/showme.cfm?show=79&title=The%20Raw%20Mess%20Around&back=archive&show_occur_id=61385&start=1

I'm hoping to record more once I can play this accordion better....

Creating Presence

The past couple days, I have been exhausted. Feeling ghostly and unconnected, I found myself walking down the same dirt road that I'm used to jogging on. The sun was setting, the water was practically at my feet, beautiful and shimmering. There were new boats tied to the dock across the canal. One especially large one was cobalt blue with a white stripe that plunged into the water. It reminded me of my large portable cooler back at my apartment, sitting on my kitchen floor. Yes...it was a beautiful night. As I walked back, bats darted at my head. They flew in and out from the willowy trees at either side of the narrow path. I was happy to have them, they were eating the mousquitoes that I was probably attracting.

All this beauty and newness...but GOD I was bored. Lately, I have been running almost every day. Sometimes I run for almost two hours in the forest simply because I get lost. Chipmunks (the cutest things!) and black squirrels scatter onto the top branches of the birch trees as they hear me coming. The chipmunks are small, bite sized. I think the last couple days, all my exercising and moving to my 3rd story apartment has finally caught up to my body. I slept most of yesterday, then baked for those who helped me move today and slept for 2-3 hours in the middle of the day today after a orange dark chocolate sugar crash. I dreamt of empty love and satanic verses...a woman who heard songs of redemption magically playing on her record player turn suddenly to songs of damnation. She covered her ears when the 2nd set of music played.

I SIGH, just thinking of those days...but then today I started to play the accordion. The size and easy reach of the keys makes this instrument perfect for me. The only thing is the difficulty of coordinating the buttons for playing jazz because they are far apart from each other...it was built for folk songs with easy 1 - 4 or 1- 5 chord progressions, the 1-4/5 buttons being side by side. I've been playing a song over and over called "My Ideal." Again, I'm thinking of all the time I've wasted inside of my own head rather than just living...being in the present moment. Now, I'm trying to not waste any more time with analyzing things too much. But music helps to get me out of this space of over-analyzing.

Music puts me in my own place, connects me to my own universe. It is like the time I saw an added dimension in the wall, a place that I suppose always existed but I had never had the chance to see inside. There were added dimensions in a place that I had always seen as merely flat, merely seen it for its purpose or form as a wall. But there was so much more there. After expanded, and made into a portal, I realized that everything is like this...matter is infused with spirit, with the "Other," that which we seek and want to know...but is seems as if it is always fleeting. Life force. However, it is not. It is always present...it is just knowing how and when to TAP IN.

It is in this place, when doing my music or writing that I feel I am in my place. After Sally Strobelight contacted me today...I realized how important it is to be with others who have the ability to see through walls...or even better, see into walls (that way you are not ignoring what is there in matter...but acknowledging that there is so much more possible than what just stands).
It is also in this place where I feel LOVE. Rather than trying to run from myself, I am trying to stay with this settled feeling, this feeling of serenity, calm, or just feeling alright sitting with myself...it is the difficulty of being alone, of not expecting others to provide this LOVE for me. I know that I am the only one to provide it for myself...with my actions and that which I create for myself and others...my art.

Well...after my chocolate induced crash today, I was finally able to dream. It was a good dream. Even though I awoke with a chocolate hangover, a headache, I felt a presence here, something benevolent smiling at me. I felt something here with me in my new apartment. After that I took my accordion out from it's case, from it's red velvet wrap, and I played...I played and sang "My Ideal" until I was interrupted. The downstairs neighbors' burned food was causing the smoke alarm to emit a piercing sound (they go off from other apartments' smoke). It broke into my dreamy state, but it did not completely jar me. I haven't left yet. I am still here, hoping to stay.

My Comment to "Racist" Article in Mining Gazette, Houghton's Local Paper

First, here is the response to the article...the response outlines the article. I thought that the article was ridiculous, but also the response did not quite ring true to me. So I wrote a response that follows. But first, I will try to summarize a little...

This woman who wrote the article was basically arguing against the international flags displayed on the main street of Houghton and Hancock for the parade that is to follow, honoring international students and residents of this area. I agree that the article was backed up poorly with this woman's superior attitude to other nationalities/ethnicities compared to "American" which to her, translates, "white American." However, I also wanted to acknowledge the area that we are all in...a primarily white, conservative area...

So anyway, here is the president of the international club's response, followed by my response...

Dear students,

My name is Madie Xiong. I am a Computer Engineering senior at Michigan
Tech and I am the president of the International Club. As most of you
know I am Hmong but by birth, I am a proud American. Today, when I
came across this news paper entry, I was SHOCKED.. APPALLED.. I could
not believe what I was reading! I am very disappointed to know that an
independent woman would write such narrow-minded statements about the
international flags in downtown Houghton, the 9/11 attacks, and the
veils that MiddleEastern women wear. I suggest that you please read
this and forward it.

WE AS STUDENTS MUST RISE UP TOGETHER AGAINST ANY FORM OF HATE,
DISCRIMINATION, and STEREOTYPES.

Here is my response...

I have been thinking a lot about my response to this writer's
intolerance of other nationalities. At first, I was appalled and
annoyed (especially at some of her ridiculous points behind not
wanting the flags...like the yearly cost, and terrorism) but then I
had to listen to a deeper reaction to not only this woman, but also to
MANY other similar interactions that I have had to endure just the
past two years. I had to reach beyond the knee-jerk reaction that
wanted to label this woman as merely "bad" or "wrong" and try to find
another way to react to her that would be helpful to both sides of the
argument.

To me, there are two clearly distinguished sides, the people whom she
views as her community, a native-born white community (I'm assuming),
and a community that I have not yet found here, but I feel I belong
to, people of color and those who acknowledge us (those who are not of
color but who are also appalled or uncomfortable with the article, our
sympathizers).

Maybe I am riding solo on this one, but I try to react to racism and
prejudice in a different way than most people. I'm more accepting
than angry when confronted with someone who (based on my ethnic
background) doesn't understand me. When I am upset, it is only when I
feel I have been attacked or left with no power or worth.

Sometimes (what I strive for), I can stand back from the situation and
try to see the other person for who they really are (even though they
are not seeing me this way). I know, that most of the time, the other
person does not mean any harm to me. Most of the time they have been
so isolated within a unicultural community, that their views have been
molded around knowing only one kind of person, excluding the rest. I
see some sort of clash based on this isolation (like what this article
has caused) as an opportunity to let them (those coming from a
unicultural community) truly see me as a person, not just the
unknowable foreign "other," and maybe not one of them, but as someone
who deserves to exist right along side of them.

When I am confronted with someone who is intolerant, I try to be in a
place where I can be neutral, however insulting or demeaning their
comments may seem. I know that, sadly, they are viewing me as an
outsider, someone different from their norm, their everyday. Instead
of trying to prove that they are wrong, or that they are "bad" (a
natural reaction when you feel hurt, rejected, or victimized), I
assert myself as I am, and I correct them if what they have said is
factually/historically incorrect (sometimes I do this). I try to act
with kindness and know that no matter what anyone says to me, I am
still a worthy human being, and so are they.

This may sound like such a weak or flimsy response to intolerance, but
I feel it is the best response. I would rather give someone the chance
(over time) to get to know me, than ban them as a bad person for their
views. To me, racism is not about power, rather it is
misunderstanding, and conflicts like this are chances to bring people
together, not only people from "my side" of the argument (other people
of color and our sympathizers) but also from the side that has caused
the hurt, and those who may agree with her.

As I said, the last two years, I have experienced or witnessed many
different forms of racism or intolerance. Not only within very rural,
primarily white areas (Eugene, Oregon--91% Caucasian--and here) but
also when living in New Orleans, Korea, working in Chinatown, or even
when visiting my family. Just since I've been here, I've heard the N
word, been called a "Chinagirl" (female version of "Chinaman"), and
have been blamed for other "more capable" white males not getting into
the RTC program. But my reaction to these comments have been less of a
fighting nature, and more of acceptance. Before I came here, I had an
idea of what the general U.P. native-born populace was going to be
like...and what comments to expect from this populace.

For example, I went to a Guy Lombardo Orchestra concert at the Calumet
Theatre and the first 20 minutes was a tribute to the U.S. military.
The leader of the band was talking about how we had to fight against
terrorism. Everyone rose and sang patriotic songs. I was thinking to
myself that I would never have experienced anything like this in
California. This blatant display of nationalism would have received
boos from the crowd. But then I thought of the populace here and their
more conservative beliefs and values. It was appropriate. It was a new
experience for me.

Now, I realize where I am and whose larger community I am living
within. I can find other people of color within the Michigan Tech.
international clubs. Also, I can be comfortable as a Chinese-American
with those in my program, and the friends that I have made here, but I
may never feel the same comfort outside of these contexts. I realized
this after going to the Guy Lombardo show and seeing the tribute to
Bush and anti-terrorism; also, after telling others that I lived in
Korea, and hearing over and over again, "Oh, are you from Korea? You
speak such good English." (as if English-speaking Americans can only
be white) -- I know where I am at with the general populace here in
Houghton/Hancock, and I accept it.

I am not trying to be antagonistic to anyone's upset feelings based on
this woman's article, or stand on the side of the newspaper for
printing it. I think that, based on my ethnic identity and my support
of an international community here in Houghton/Hancock, that the
article is outrageous. However, what I AM trying to say is that we
(as people of color and as sympathizers) need to also look at our
version of the "Other," the people who were born here secluded within
their unicultural communities, the people that may (sadly) agree with
the article. Is there anyway to open up a dialogue to include the
people of different backgrounds/experiences of a more diverse
population AND the people from the more secluded populace that exists
here?

Sincerely,

Shannon W. L.

Mourning and When to Stop

I'm currently reading a Torah commentary and it is speaking of Chaya Sarah which means "the life of Sarah" (the mother of the people of Israel) even though the story's premise is of her death. But after reading more about how the Jewish people deal with death, this title makes sense. Even though it is about her death, the title is meant to emphasize that her life should be emphasized, and mourners should be honoring her for her life and what she did, not getting stuck within their sorrow.

Thinking of my daily runs, I know I am doing this in order to release recent losses in my life, people who I have lost, dreams or plans that seemed to change suddenly, the unpredictablility of life...and those whom I came to trust, to know, and love...those who have shared so much with me. I cried so much recently...the most compared to before. I was in my grief...again. But this time it felt different. I was clear about so much in this moment...what I wanted, what I lost. But mostly, it was what I wanted that seemed to rise to the surface of the consistent state of blah or feeling numb for so long...I truly felt it as I was blanketed by the trees, the green of the leaves. I ran to a more open space, I released it...I let it go...I wailed...

Today, I did yoga for one and a half hours on a pier, over beautiful blue water, the wind and sun on me. It was simply glorious...and I wondered...what has been keeping me from all of this?

I am returning to myself here...

And all the people who I have loved, those who I thought wanted to hurt me...they fade into the scenery that surrounds me. I see my lovers in the sun, the trees, the water...

Duluth, Minnesota and NATURE vs. NURTURE

While on my road trip, I was pulled over twice for speeding, once in Utah and the other time recently, in Minnesota.

The Minnesotan officer was so cordial when he spoke to
me. I am used to California police officers who you are scared of, no nonsence kind of people who are writing the ticket out before they come to your window. But this guy was different, no cop glasses, nice tan, light brown uniform (he looked a little like a UPS driver), white blond hair and a crinkly smile. He introduced himself by first and last name, then proceeded toexplain exactly why he was concerned, and the exact reason why he pulled me over (as if he had to ligitimitize it with me!).

There was another officer in a car beside him. I could see both of them sitting there, waiting for speeders from the adjoining island separating the sides of the highway
When he spoke about why he was pulling me over he used the plural pronoun "we." I felt I was being cared for by this police man, as if he was truly "concerned" for my welfare and the safety of other drivers around me, not merely intending to give me a ticket. He said that the "reason why we were concerned" was because I was going too fast. He asked a few questions about my trip. I explained I was alone, and while making this long trip alone, I was unaware that I was going so fast. He gave me a warning. The rest of the trip, I
slowed down. I went from 95 to 80-85. I was sincerely touched by the officer's approach, that he actually cared...

I decided to stop in Duluth, Minnesota because I had heard it was a "rockin place" from a Michigan Tech grad. At night, I went out, searching for others like myself to talk to and enjoy some sort of night-life scene. I went into an Irish Bar (forgot the name) after I saw a dreadlocked guy go in. I spoke to the same guy after getting a beer and sitting down. He had red hair with a beard and moustache that had been gelled; it pointed to the left and to the right. After getting his name, he refused to talk to me unless I played "The Question game." My brain wasn't working right from all the driving...and he was Socratic in his method of explaining the game to me. After he asked me a question, I answered and he said, "15" and pointed to himself, "LOVE" and pointed to me. As I answered more of his questions, his score grew and mine stayed "LOVE."

Eventually, I got taken away by his friends, a rowdy and silly group of students from the university across Lake Superior. We went to a cheezy 80's bar with 70's disco music, "hits' that I had never heard before, hits that were never actually hits..very strange.

After the 80's bar, we went to Norshore, a beautiful old theatre that had once been a strip bar. There was a Marilyn Monroe/frank Sinatra movie playing on the wall as we walked in. Statues of marilyn circa "7 Year itch" stood opposite from the movie as well as one of Elvis (pre-war, of course). I didn't know that the place had been converted to a regular bar, minus strippers, and minus a contortionist that the cops had stopped from performing at the Norshore.

I thought of my friend, Theresa Columbus, a performance artist who once lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin now living in SAVAGE, Maryland. When I knew her, she would play an out-of-tune guitar and sing and howl in verse, poetry. We once did a performance together...one that ended up slightly pornographic, bellies that rubbed on each other while repeating a chant. It was then that I realized how performance art, this revolutionary form of theatre, was channeling an old form of ritual otherwise known as chanting, ceremony...something that our American culture is lacking. We are what we do...and these repetitive acts channel our routes for future courses of action. This is why ceremony is so important, something that represents our passage, these important moments of transformation.

A rabbi told me recently that within the Reform movement, I am considered Jewish because one of my parents is Jewish (my father). This is in contrast with the Orthodox Jews who believe that you can only become Jewish if you were born that way, passed on ONLY from your mother.

Today, a lady from the local Reform synagogue said that I do not have to go through with the ceremony of becoming Jewish, my ascension to God, home...a sort of latent Batmitzvah. She said that I am already considered Jewish because of my father. I told her that if I convert, I would like to do the ceremony...to publicly announce myself as a Jew.

The reason why I bring this up is because I have been thinking and discussing the subject of NATURE vs. NURTURE and the production of art. How one is born a certain way vs. the act of creating oneself anew...like with my artist/musician friends who create separate personnas for themselves in order to channel their art, Art Lessing, Flower Vato, and Dr. Audrey Saint Violet. I have pften thought of changing my name...as a testimony, the act of reasserting myself as myself, not the person I was necessarily born as...but as I was born an artist, or merely re-born an artist (like the Pentecostals feel they experience when they enter into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ).

When in Oregon I was looking up the basis of the artist as someone who was born that way, more inclined to have "the gift" of artistic vision rather than a skill that takes a lifetime to hone. The former theory comes from the idea of privilege, "good breeding" whiel the latter comes from the idea of "common blood" or "working class." ONE is privileged, he is considered worthy by just Being while the other works his ass off to prove himself. One is spirit separate from the physicial while the other is body, flesh in motion.

The point is that there is one way of Being that involves inaction and another that involves discipline and WORK. Part of my trip to Michigan has been to try and get back to the idea of art as work...and that I am not Being something unless I am progressing and working hard at my craft. Lately, I have felt like in my life, I have been doing what I needed to survive...busy, busy, busy...and recently, the lull and sadness of break-up, hiatus. I run to try and move through it...but only unsuccessfully. I am hoping that here in the U.P., I will be able to concentrate (I have a scholarship up here...I have always had to work while in school) on my craft, on rhetoric and the writing skills and insight will come with working hard in the program.

I don't know if this is making sense...but when I meet such amazing people as I have up here, I know that I can become more of who I really am. By making the choice to come to such an isolated, inexpensive place and be fully supported, I will be able to truly focus on that which moves me, which speaks from within...and create those objects, those manifestations that best represents my "ethical core," that which lies within me....

And I said this same thing to Dead Western about his music...I related a moaning tree to his singing. Now that I think of it, I have felt this from many whose music, writing, or art has inspired me. I have felt something come over me, uncontrolled. Gadamer would call this art one that captivates the receiver, so much that he cannot take his attention off of it. But to me, I experience it as nature that has been nurtured, art that is made intentional by the artist.
I only catch rare glimpses of the artist's vision within moments...and I have to remember that it is all I have and let go of the rest. But then again the past is what has shaped me, helped give birth to me even. I want to hold on to the past, yet it pulls away from me because it is no longer in the present. It hovers because it has not yet moved into its current form. So I hover with it. I linger. I go within.

But maybe it is the synthesis of past experiences that brings all to attention...to life.

Lonely Drive in Circles...Beak to Beak or Mouth to Mouth

As I drove along 80 today, my trip felt so plain which was appropriate considering I was traveling in Wyoming and Nebraska...the Great Plains. I stopped at a gas station with a green dinosaur on it to get some soft serve ice cream (it was advertised as only 35 cents per cone) and pick up some postcards. The lady behind the counter and the other Wyoming native were tickled by the "Love Them Wyoming Buns" postcard sporting two guys in tight jeans and chaps, leaning over a corral of cattle. Seems there is this same "Love Them ___ Buns" postcards for each state.

This trip reminds me of the last time I took a road trip on my own. I was 23 and trying to drive this demon out of my system. I remember it being hard for me to leave my comfie apartment, a spacious basement flat that I used to rollerskate in with friends before I got all my furniture. My friend, Carrie and her sister had to push me out of it, because I was scared to get out there by myself.

As soon as I was gone, I was okay. After I started driving, I could feel something moving within me then through and out of me. The first night, I stayed in a motel and I dreamed about my ex. He was traveling in a motor home, looking for me all over the country. He went back to my mother's house where (for the first time) I picked him up and threw him back from where he had come. He drove off, a sad snail in his shell.

Now, as I drive, I feel that rather than pushing through something or letting go of something, that I am going further and further into myself. Aimee Mann is singing about how she goes in circles, and mentions another distracting thing that breaks a current, the current being her much needed flow of thought. I know that I am still quite far from my final destination, but I wonder when the speed and distance of my travel are going to disrupt the circles happening within my own mind, the goldfish swimming round and round, searching for escape within the confines of the small glass bowl.

I commented before on Sally Strobelight's song featured on her myspace page, that it sounds like marbles going through a route that is too narrow so they spark on both the top and bottom. They are being forced through; sometimes things need to be pushed out of us.

Also thinking of the crow that I was next to when I was sitting in my car, prepping to meet a rabbi at the local synagogue for the first time. The bird looked sick. He just sat there, staring at me. He didn't try to eat, fly, or look for food. He didn't move until he saw another much larger crow in the near distance. He walked hurridly up to the other crow and cawed at it...leaving its beak open as if he wanted the bigger crow to feed him, beak to beak. OH...it was a sign. It was the same park where my boyfriend told me that he didn't want to talk to me anymore...and now I was waiting to face what may become my connection to God. I waited till the end of my stay to go to the synagogue. When I visited with the rabbi in their library, I'd wished I'd been there the whole time while in Sacramento.

After explaining the crow to my mom, I tried to figure out why it would react that way with the other older crow. "Maybe it had been left in the nest too long?" This was my explanation of the crow's behavior. As soon as I'd said it, I regetted it. Was this me as well? Had I left myself in a nest too long....maybe not the nest of my parents, but some nest, some place where I'd let my ideas about the way things were supposed to be stew and sit too long...and now I am breaking loose only to find myself horrified...still expecting a great "Other" to come. INstead of finding my own nourishment, my mistake has often lied in the fact that I look for others to feed me. Like the baby crow, I am expecting another to heal me, mouth to mouth...or in his case, beak to beak.

My Devil and Daniel Johnston's a Four Part Series

To be known or to be unknowable...we are among the untracable, the uncatchable. we are elusive.

When I sat through this movie, I thought of the times within my own life when I was having those delusions of grandeur...still am. I know why I get stuck in those sticky places of in between spaces, rotten teeth with the cotton candy still lodged in between, years of the stuff packed and stacked, catalogued...all crazy talk which caused this residue. I try to decode. I fall in the accumulation of corroded ponderings, those of mine and others. I let myself fall, and I get stuck.

I think of Daniel Johnston's sweet voice, how "unstable" he was and how he thought in mythic ways. The violence, the paranoi...check, check, check.

I told someone recently that we create these major events in our lives before they actually occur...then the building up of the illusion, then the "bubble burst" I unconsciously strive to become the one who props people up...the ladder that I climb up, then am knocked off of only to end up standing underneath, the can of paint to falling on my head...the bucket of water being dumped, waking me up, making me look so foolish...winning the wet T-shirt contest that I didn't even enter...

But when I saw this movie, it did remind me of Janet Frame...another artist who looked like an adult little orphan Annie. She was an incredible writer from New Zealand who struggled with social awkwardness,. Frame was eventually was misdiagnosed with schizophrenia and kept in a mental hospital for 7 years. She was minutes away from a labotomy when a national writer's award prevented it from happening. Her whole life after the institution, she ended up living with her parents in a small trailer, continuing to write.

Now, I'm going to a very isolated place in Michigan. I have just left someone who knew me very well... It is difficult to be known and then not to be known. I walk around the streets of my hometown feeling ghostly.


The Devil

I was not raised Christian, but I have often struggled with something that looks like demons.

But, I don't know. I think that, instead of seeing the presence of demons as "evil," I rather see them as something which I view as "foreign," unfamiliar, or the feared "Other" showing up as an adversarial form to get my attention. However, some demons are "bad" or harmful simply because they are things that do not belong with me, manipulative energy from others, those who are misrepresenting themselves. This chicanery is at its worst when others try to take your most important parts, your vulnerablity and poetry...and twist these things up to fit in their pockets. But first, you must open your doors to them. You do not have to do this, let them in.

ANYWAY, when something that doesn't belong in or with me is revealed as such, (like what the body does with a splinter) it finds a way to push itself out of me. And if it does not, I work hard to find a way to push it out.

Lately, my splinter has appeared as familiar faces and people speaking to me, but they are surrounded by darkness. Someone whose face and upper torso which I cannot see (it is blurry and surrounded by a murky darkness) who holds out his hand. He says, "Come here." I am on the bed, half asleep. I say, "No, you come here. " He says, "No, you come here. " I say, "No, you come here. " He says, "No, you come here." "I say, "No, You come here." Each of us wants the other to come to the other. I still can't see him, but then his hand shows up right by my bed. He has come to me. "Okay, now you come here." he says. I think that he has done most of the work, and I am captivated by the hand. But while he can see me, I can't see him. I take his hand...and suddenly, I am pulled into the next world. I am taken from my slumber, my comfort. I am dragged. I scream out because I know I've been taken for a ride. ANd it was violent.

Jesus

Lately I have been having dreams with the figure of Jesus. Although he always stands from afar, his presence brings me comfort. Jesus is merely one of the many saints, saviors...and because I don't know him, the dream presents him as another (an unknown sheppard with a benevolent presence) or he stands with two others in front of national monuments, all in the dark. I can see his sillouette smiling up at me. He seems to have an unusually curly perm. I see its oil in the moonlight...like a Jerry Curl.

A couple people were trying to convince me that a conversion is happening within these dreams of Jesus. But I don't know. I just observe his presence. I think of the chaos that I have felt with the demons and the comfort that I have always felt with religious figures. Both show me things. Both are valuable for the revealing process...

In Between Integration...being somewhere but not entirely there

Now, I dig my feet into the mud of the river. My toes reach down but I don't fall through. I let my body drink the water surrounding. I dig down deeper until I feel air on the other side of the river's bottom. I want someone to reach up and grab my feet, pull me through. But there is no one there. Or is there? Someone is tickling my feet from underneath the water and mud. Someone is touching my fingertips from above, but they will not pull me up from the muck. Everyone is laughing at my situation.

As I hear voices laughing from above and below, I try to relate. And as I react to the stimulation of the ones below me, my laughter comes up to the surface in bubbles. The people above can hear me, but those below cannot. However I try, I cannot be with these people below the surface or those above the surface. I am stuck in the middle, alone, at the mercy of the surrounding elements.

Second Rule of Rhetoric...consider your audience...and the fight I had at the gas station

The second rule of rhetoric and half of what the rhetorician should consider before he speaks is, not only the meaning of what he wants to convey, but HIS AUDIENCE...the receiving end. It is never enough to just assert the rhetor's version of "the truth." You always have to consider your audience, and exactly what you are trying to communicate to the Other. Otherwise, it is just a verbal exposing of oneself to another rather than a communication or something attempting at reciprocity...

Just thought of that based on my own recent experience of the mover and objectification that can occur when both are not considered movers or equals...and one becomes the "object" or the stationary person, unable to speak because he was not considered in the first place. The communication becomes one-sided at this point. The rhetor becomes a fundamentalist, prosthelizing his dogma rather than trying to incorporate the Other's views, history, values...etc. within the conversation.

As a dialectician or fledgling hermeneut, I am always trying to think about HOW I relate to others and how I'd like to be related to. Recently, I got in a fight with a man in a gas station (disagreements happen from time to time in random places...). He was a muscle-bound man with an imposing presence. I had turned around my car quickly because I pulled up to the wrong pump in the front of the station. Because of my quick movements, and the positioning of my car (I was on the side of this guy where a pump was opening up) he started to yell at me. I rolled down my window to talk to him. I tried to calm him down. He had a HUGE white truck...I told him there were two people pulling out and so we now both had places to get gas...and was everything okay, now? His face was red from yelling. It was twisted up in a grimace.

When I got out of my car, he continued to yell at me, claiming I was "rude" for trying to get ahead of him. I told him that I wasn't trying to get ahead of him. He shook his head. I guess he had made up his mind that I was to be the anonymous "evil Other" for the day (or moment!). He didn't believe me because of this...or trust me (of course this is just speculation). So I told him that I didn't want to waste my time and energy with anger...and why don't we just go about our business and get our gas. He muttered. BUT it didn't end there.

As he finished I stupidly said to him, "Try to have a good day." I don't know why I continued to engage someone who was obviously going to try to leash out on me more...upon speculation, it was almost like I was trying to instigate him. At the time, I thought the comment was sincere...but maybe it was not. He retorted, "Try not to be rude." I smiled at him and said, "I understand that you feel helpless in this moment. I'm sorry you feel like a victim in this situation." He looked at me silenced and stunned and drove off.

At the time, it felt good to say this because it was my truth in the situation...but now I wonder why I engaged him further than I needed to. Why did I try to gain power in a situation with someone who obviously felt so powerless in the first place?

In Christian mysticism (and part of dialectics...a spiritual component of rhetoric), there is the concept of the "good physician," someone who tells others what they don't want to hear for their spiritual betterment or self-improvement. Maybe I was taking on this role in this situation. At the time, I thought that I was just trying to not take this guy's shit. The funny thing was, despite this guy's outlandish behavior and physique (he was obviously a body builder or something) I was not aware of being physically threatened by him. But I was aware of this metaphysical "attack" on my actions and character. Why would it matter with someone who doesn't know me...a stranger? I don't know? But it was this idea of mistrust that compelled me to act...and that he was probably mad about something else and thought he could just take it out on this anonymous object (me). I could not allow for this to happen.

So did I follow the 2nd rule of rhetoric...considering the receiving end? Or did I merely switch around his intent in reaction, and make him into the object? I'll have to speculate further...

Punished by Edith Piaf and Maurice Chevalier

When I tried to sing French all he could say was "Nice try." Another friend said, "Is that you?!" when he heard Edith Piaf from my computer. He was sleeping in his loft bed far above me as I typed away. I heard scooters outside and the droning of the British man being interviewed on Art Bell. I was laughing each time the man said, "Big Bah-ng."

Listening to Willie Nelson now, I am comforted by this space. I am silenced, almost relaxed. My friend is sleeping now, and I hear the bus hiss at me from outside. Punished. I think about the concept and how I have often been put in a place of the "pagan" friend or girlfriend.

Once I had a boyfriend who came from a Pentecostal background. He used to recite bible verses in his sleep. I guess we all repeat what we have heard when we drift off to sleep. But there is also a certain anxiety that can occur when you are with someone new and you try to let go with them for the first time...to sleep. And then there are the psyches that can never become untwisted from an agonized place. And there are the savers who try and ring them out, untangle them from a ball of crossed wires, mixed-up spokes and cogs only for the sparks to catch in the saver's eyes...blinding her for a while, detracting from her most important work.

But sometimes one can feel conjoined to these people. They represent links to inner and outer space...links which my advisor, Priestess Miriam says I should have with only a spiritual outlet...the discipline that my "know everything" generation seems to be lacking.

The rich voice of Edith Piaf and funny lyrics of Maurice Chevalier...both fade into folds of my sleeping bag. They are what I love, but they are also what I am not being. Everytime I fold my sleeping bag up yet again, I am moving my psyche around more and more. It feels needless to my psyche. My psyche wants to settle down, to sink in to a soft yet firm place, bite into soft cement bags and leave gold teeth behind, the fancy shells that blind others when I speak.

I'm sleeping alone now, yet I still hear the nostril squeeking of those from my past, ghosts with ties or scarves around their necks. I wait for the ties and scarves to come off so they will rush through me as one big breath, the neverending exhale, the result of years of holding their breath. But maybe it has been me who has been holding my breath. Everyone else around me has only been breathing, living, acting and speaking within their own rhythms, patterns, and pace. Whitman described "dreams and dots" as modern man losing his soul yet, for me, they are only the pin points to my grand design...my work. As I weave in and out of these relationships, I can only shake hands, press bodies, jiggle hearts, and mix words. The faces pass before me as a series of far away kites, blankets that shake out all their belongings, eyes that he said were kind but closed soon after. A blinking eye is a sign. A call unanswered is a game. It ends only to continue within another conversation somewhere else.

A Synthesis of Circuitous Relapses

Got to thinking about the dog who goes in circles so much that he ends up biting his own tail. ALso thought about, as an artist, how I attempt to create events in my life before they actually occur...within Being that is. It takes time for the spirit to show up within an event...all else is forced into Being because of my needs and ends up being false.

In many cases, my words and dreamy ponderings attempt to captivate others, the same function as art that speaks to you. But then I live in this illusion (of a real event) just long enough to see its flaws (because it is objectified, not real, controllable as a creation of art, techne)...and it shatters. The ideal or the creation is gone and I am left with only these shards, the casing that I created only with the essence, missing...the real life force, silenced...just me standing there alone, flapping my gums.

But now I realize that it takes time...Unfortunately everything does take time. It can't all be syntheses...rather a long duration of acts, determined by ethics and discipline followed by series of surprise visitations by Being, or syntheses.

Like in Heidegger's Being and Time, he sees time as part of being "the eternal recurrence of the same events" which I believe could include the discipline of the artist and then those WOW moments when all synthesizes into a BEing moment, when you feel that Being has shone through or upon you and the object created.

But what about the opposite, which Heidegger also addresses (as well as all existentialists), the Nothing. The artist, as a channel for Being, becomes a wide open space so she is continually within the Nothing or the Being, fluctuating as a messenger between the two.

However, when plunged into the Nothing sometimes the artist becomes a mere observer for what is happening around her. She becomes absorbed by the Nothing, and begins a series of circuitous journeys. As a messenger turned observer, she cannot return to the self because she no longer recognizes it. She has merely become a tool for either the Nothing or the Being (which may no longer visit her).

In her visionary work, she carries Being across dark empty space to fuse with objects (trying to bring dead matter to life!). However, within this harrowing process, she forgets she exists. Instead, she goes in circles, between the Nothing and the self that she can no longer locate. She gets stuck in this circular motion...and instead of returning to a realized self, she objectifies herself within a series of self-absorbed observations, never reaching the place that links inner and outer space...an integrated self. She has just sacrificed herself in order to bring Being to the Objects.

Within the circle, she ends up only seeing her own rear end (like the dog). Eventually, she is tired of looking at her rear end so she bites it (dog biting her own tail). She finally finds herself, but only accidentally and only through the act of self-mutilation...self-sacrifice gone bad. Ummm, waiter, can I have a little sadism with my masochism? ...yes, this happens for a reason as well...sacrificing those who are close to us, sacrificing ourselves.

Or maybe she attacks herself for fear of being attacked by another, a foreign element that she is exposed to (and unaware of) while within the Nothing.

This is, I think, when artists become self-mutilators. And the solution is to stay with the "eternal recurrance of the same events," only within the discipline of your art...and NOT to confuse beings (other artists who are channels for God or Being) with Being (God). This is the mistake I've often made, confusing an intermediary source for the actual source, Being.

Now, I need to become my own intermediary source, linking up with Being in a less serious and more joyful way!!!!

A Friendly Slap in the Face (revised and reprinted from myspace)

A Friendly Slap in the Face for Me and Others/The Will of the Artist/God

My friend Roderick recently told me that I had helped someone by slapping her in the face. I never considered this to be healthy or even helpful until now. Yesterday, I went to a support group filled with women who strive to be good. They explained how they didn't want profanity in the meetings. They had a long, growing list (growing from last week) of things they Didn't want people to do and this was one of them. Being someone who considers words to be vehicles for me and others, not impeding forces, I do not feel the use of them should be restricted. Also, by asserting this rule, they were trying to control the meeting to suit their specific religious beliefs, not necessarily serve the recovery or well-being of their members.


So, anyway, back to the "warrior" way that my friend sees me as being, or "Tiger" or "pregnant tiger" (even scarier, he says!). I'd like to think of myself as a pregnant tiger because then I have the baby (something vulnerable and worthy that I am trying to protect) but I am also fierce to those who try to harm it, or others.

Anyway, this one dreamy-seeming woman (the leader of the pack) ended up getting in my shit, trying to reorganize it or make it go away. She commented on what I had said in the meeting (it was supposed to be anonymous). So I told her that I didn't want to hear it from her, and the thing I liked about the organization was that people are not supposed to give advice. She condescendingly told me that she was sorry for "hurting me." I told her that she didn't "hurt me," rather just made me feel very uncomfortable. It is funny how much power some people think they have over others, and vice versa when others feel utterly powerless. This wolverine had to go down!

SO now, I am going back to the other meeting, filled with women who I told them that I preferred because they, "do not try to be good all of the time." I have always lived with this split, and I do not intend to stay with it. I'd rather be a whole person, loving the dichotomies within myself without feeling torn or conflicted because I know that the bodily (or baudy) is necessary to being human while the pious is superior.

I recently got back in touch with an OLD friend of mine, when I was still creating "Zine Queer" in the early 90's. He said that he still has a black and white picture of the piano bar he used to own. On the piano is a copy of "Zine Queer." This picture hangs in his house now. His name is Winko Ljizz, a one man band. He loves the sin and the savior...a totally awesome attitude.

He told me about one of the best experiences that he ever had on Del Paso Heights, a beautiful example of a dichotomy that included this world and what he sees as the spiritual world. They became mended or communicated with one another in this moment. He was sitting in Lil' Joe's (a steakhouse with tough beef and prices from the 50's) when he looked across the street and saw an XXX Sex Shop right next to a Church of Christ. He envisioned a man "jacking off" in the XXX shop and a preacher reciting the "holy word" in the building next door. Winko told me how these two things belong together, that when opposites meet there are sparks. It is within these sparks that we create art, the great contradictions, the place where my spiritual advisor, Priestess Miriam goes when she enters her state of divination and we just laugh and laugh at the dichotomies of my crazy life.

The books of the Kabbala (Jewish mystical texts) also speak of these "sparks," but they describe them as the "Shekiniah" or the spark of God that was stuck within us when God (as light) tried to embody matter through holy vessels. However, some of the vessels were not pure so they exploded and God's light (because what is God if not something that allows us to see more!?) shot out as splinters into all matter, including people, animals, and even objects. Those who believe in the Kabbala say that they are not panthiests (those who believe in many Gods) rather that all is God...this one God. And, furthermore, we are all participating in God's realm within the everyday, the profane, and the sacred. They are all part of each other. To ignore one is to not fully acknowledge the other. As Winko also said, "You must sin before you are forgiven." I don't know if I believe in "sin" rather going against what you know to be the "truth" (or to stop being open to seeing a new way) in order to give into fear, compliance to another's wishes (false prophecy), or to be stay stuck within "morally superiority"...self-righteousness... I am glad to be back in this truth.

Even though I wasn't raised within a specific religion which controlled or constricted how I saw the world's order (inner and outer), I was always sort of a devout person, always trying to do what was "right." Of course, I didn't always adhere to this idea, but I tried for at least half of my life. The other half, I was just trying to make up for the time when I was repressing myself. I went completely the other way. This reminds me of my friend, Rosemary who lived half her life as a nun, and the other as a Hollywood harlot! She did both!

But in my youth, my idea of creativity was false. My lifestyle was destructive when creative because I believed that I was controlled by this creative force, rather than honing my skills and taking control myself. Now, I'm trying to balance out. I'm trying to stay healthy without adhering to a lifestyle that represses me...like eating rice cakes all the time-ONLY! The other extreme would be when I used to eat ice-cream sundaes for breakfast! A lot of color, sweets, good feeling, but with no sustenence. My slap in the face was a prolonged sugar low which made me feel like the artist's life was not good for me.

But for now, I am back. I recently went to a music festival out in Woodland. At the Plainsfield Bar, a biker bar with a nice grassy field in the back for shows, I saw bands strutting their stuff. Some of them were my friends Art Lessing and Flower Vato, an awesome new band (new to me) whom I LOVED--Eddie the Rat. www.eddietherat.com

After doing 19th-century archival research for a class in Eugene (after displaced by Katrina) I studied the history of the idea that creativity is a "natural force" rather than a discipline. I realized that this idea connects to an inherently racist ideology such as Social Darwinism or a Taxonomy of Races which believed that "some people" naturally had the gift of artistic vision while others (such as all people of color) did not. Those on the top were graced by God and created in his image, while everyone else (women included...especially because they also believed we had smaller brains) were not. Everyone else, actually, was not fully human. An ethnologist, Louis Agassiz believed that this taxonomy of races actually created "species" within the different humans, rather than races. Primates were actually races. This fits into creativity in how some artists see creativity as a force of its own will, rather than something within our own will. Ok...gotta go running with my mom...it's getting hot in Sacramento. I'll explain better later!