At the Mercy of MapQuest again

You know that Mapquest is the Devil's plaything, right? Okay. Just wanted to get that out there.

Actually, Satan's toy didn't trip me up too badly this time. Just one rural "shortcut" that I could have done without. Otherwise, the drive was fine.

My first mini-tour in two years, I visited venues in central Ohio and one in Michigan. My hosts were incredible: Ed Mabrey in Columbus, Grand Rapid's Greg Bliss and his lovely leading lady Carrie, Link in Dayton (and the entire Rustbelt team: Melissa, Cherokee & Gee), and Olafemi and Hakim of Cincinnatie. Incredible.

Plus, I've seen a intense growth in my writing and performance over the past year, so it was profoundly gratifying to connect with these audiences in new ways. Now, I wouldn't say that my work has changed, it's just better. Better, from the standpoint that I've --finally-- given myself permission to let loose 100%. I can see now that my best nights, previously, had me wide open at only 80%. Why? Well, I've always worried that I would be "too much." Like that one extra piece of jewelry that turns an outfit from smart to cheesy. Too much.

Then it's like I tapped into some internal, magic cave and drank deep, deep, deep from a clear, colorless pool of abandon.

Honor your words and your gifts, is what the sirens whispered to me.

And so, then, there I was. Blushing at the 100 or so people standing, clapping, cheering my words. Wide open, I was. It was great.

My next stop will be Albuquerque. I'm not performing this year (not that i know of), but I'm pretty proud of the team and I role as coach. I have a feature in Chicago later this month and, tentatively, a gig in Atlanta in September.

And so I'm back in cahoots with Mapquest, trying to make the most out of these travels. Honk if you see me. I'll be the one driving with one foot on the dashboard, guzzling flavored water and Hot Tamales. And speeding.

Unless, of course, it's a rural road.

Comments

Tiger Pause

At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair....

Feed Them

If we examine our opinions, we can trace the tpuzzle seams between where we've been and what we truly know. I strive to be responsible with my opinions. Feed them a balanced diet of facts, perspective, narrative and whimsy. My opinions don't aspire to be big and strong. Just healthy. They don't yearn to be popular or franchised, just authentic and, hopefully, sturdy. Even when they appear to match, opinions have unique owners. "Defending" our opinions should mean sketching their lineage: origin, influences, close relatives, familial mergers, adoptions and a nod to the season they spent "discovering themselves." Opinions offer shorthand for our emotions, experiences and unasked questions. Question your opinions. Test them in private to see if they can answer for themselves. If they're nervous or insecure. Are they loud? Lazy? Misinformed? People pleasers? How do your opinions respond to inspection or opposition? Are they holding a grudge? We...

Kraken the whip

It. has been. a YEAR since I've sat down to write. From this side of my pen, that is. Writing projects, yes. Scripts for one-woman shows. A children's book. A 11-minute poem that I performed with the Milwaukee Ballet. Nothing to boo hoo about, at all. Except these words weren't, necessarily, for me. I might have etched five poems, but I would have stirred them in a workshop I was leading or supporting. Not sure if that counts as writing for myself. When I started counting on my fingers, my eyes tracking absently across the ceiling, the math was incomprehensible. I thought of friends I'd giggled with about their comparable sex dry spells. A year, girl? A whole year, like twelve months, back to back, f'real? My bad, y'all. In this past year, my best words were tiles for funding mosaics, grants and proposals, strategic plans, contract agreements and curricula, social media posts, text messages -sometimes a panel's worth, and eight trillion emails. ...

...and then...

Search This Blog