New Song - "You're a mirror I cannot avoid" - Kevin Devine

The National

I haven't been certain how to begin this post, yet I've been both distracted and incensed by the want to write it since seeing The National in Pomona on October 16th, 2010. Two disparate and appropriate worlds collided with this show- an intense production and a complete personal heartbreak like I haven't known as an adult. Both are selfish, self-imposed and specific. The circumstance was random and unrelated, but something between the two of these separate things fit. A sense of expectation exists in both the building of a relationship and the anticipation of seeing a band you really dig for the first time. I've been around bands, musicians, theatres, artists and the like for many years. I am one. I understand the frailty, strength and commonality of each performance, each rehearsal, each excuse, each responsibility. That's why I love it- it's all a process that builds to an end,that is never an end, and it is so very imperfect. It never stops growing, nor contorting, nor finding a sense of stasis, that may seem comfortable, but is actually deadening. Relationships are built. I love live music for the this reason, but it's more of a spectator aesthetic, being more theatre based. I know what goes into the tireless hours in the studio, in practice spaces, in personal dynamics between band members, in the creation of the songs, in general irks and behaviors. When you see a band live, it is in a presentation stage, but rarely a final one. Everyone is taking one for the team, and it's up to the relationships offstage to determine the interpretation. Where are the rocks getting off? Because they are, if it's an awesome show. If the bond is held. If the relationships are strong. And there is an audience. Another responsibility. This always begs the question of: where is the evidence onstage? You know it's there! The Beatles didn't break up because of Yoko. That's a story created seeking an excuse. The Beatles were a band. A great one. And they broke up. Why? A thousand reasons that became clear in one gesture over a span of ten years. Their story makes sense to them. It is still the fodder of speculation and legend for those who were witness.

But this is not an entry about the Beatles. This is an entry about the National. This is an entry about heartbreak. I went to see this show with a friend of a friend, whom I had not yet met. This band was pivotal in a relationship that I had been building for nearly a year- one that had been full of promise, beauty, support and strength-the beginnings of a beautiful world. A relationship that I had not expected to find, nor had I anticipated to crumble. Questions had loomed, but they always do, and I had chosen to give little weight to those questions in effort to discover what possibilities lay ahead. In that relationship, I had been curious and exultant to step away from my own protective nature and admire the view from the edge of the cliff. I loved it. At any point, I could have jumped, with a running start, a wistful glance to the nodding landscape, or a whim.I did none of those things. I built the view. I loved every moment of each shift and assessment. I had only been in Los Angeles for a month, and was excited to see the National as my first show out here, simply because it was informed with the promise and nostalgia of the aforementioned relationship that had been building for 11 months, the meeting of a new friend and cohort, and I didn't expect much from the band. They had recorded the beauty that informed my expectations. They had already provided the ultimate soundtrack to this knowledge, desire and want of discovery. They could have gone onstage and farted, and I would have waited for the line that seared my heart, the riff that would encapsulate the memory that I would attach to something separate. That was their brilliance. It had nothing to do with them as a band, further than a huge thank you for attaching a beautiful and textured key. They had already done a good job in the studio. I'm a bit of a romantic cynic, in that way, when it comes to seeing bands or anything live. The process is where the building takes shape.Sometimes the audience doesn't care.The audience is meant to be selfish. They've made their decision. But that couldn't happen in this case because of an unexpected twist of fate and common knowledge that my new friend and I shared. On the ride to the show, I learned that the relationship I had been cultivating and loving was a complete fraud, and completely common. On the ride to the show, I wanted nothing more than to run home and hide. How appropriate.

And that happens. And I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I couldn't launch myself off of that promised edge. It's not my style, nor nature. I could listen and learn. I could bide my time and save whatever face I could muster. For whom? Myself. The ghost of something I won't articulate. I liked my new friend, the view that had been established, and, although I was devastated by the sudden realization of the loss of something in which I loved openly and fully, there was no way that I was going to deem myself a victim, cry in a corner and hide. Falling was not an option. I had to stand as I was. Someone who believed in something, discovered a truth that didn't fit, and took responsibility for my hopes that this wouldn't devolve as it was clearly doing from this point of recognition. Sometimes the responsibility to take is to admit that you get it. All you can do is stand up and stand forward. In a 20 minute conversation, a world imploded. I knew I needed to dismiss everything I had believed in and hoped for in this past year. Okay. Shit. Damn. this was going to hurt. Walking away always does. But I will still choose walking over jumping. It's better that way.

Holy shit, did I not want to see the National by the time we got to the venue. I hoped they'd be quick. I hoped they'd be annoying divas. I hoped they'd suck.I hoped they'd phone it in. I wanted to be disappointed, because I already had access to that vacuum. I just wanted to get home. As soon as they took the stage, they did so with inquiry and attention to detail. They approached the show as a show, and they immediately set their rules. They would play, yes, but something else was waiting. Discovery was staged with the singer coming out from behind the microphone and standing at the edge of the stage, looking at the audience, as the rest of the band continued to blare, blaze and kick ass. This became a pattern that I recognized in the back of my distracted mind. It was overt. He overtly took to the edge as I prayed that Bloodbuzz Ohio and Slow show would be done with quickly. Those were the certain songs that would kill me in my addled heart. And they were. They were done within the first 5 songs. And in between each of the songs, the singer continued his pattern of stepping away from the microphone, standing at the edge of the stage, and looking inquisitively into the crowd. A clear tactic. A pattern was being set, and it was a good one. The band was flawless. they played amazingly. Eventually, the show was done. It was good. It was intriguing. It sounded great. One of the better shows I've seen in years, despite my distraction. Clearly, there would be an encore.And there was. When they came out again, they did so with a grin. I don't remember where they began. I think it was Terrible Love, but there may have been a song prior. But in Terrible Love, the constant stepping away from the microphone gave headway into purpose. It seemed planned, because it was. The singer took his stance at the edge of the stage and during, "It takes an ocean just to break" he entered the crowd. Not crowd surfing, just walking through this mass of people, his roading with his (corded) microphone steady. He made his way through the ground floor, up to the balcony, where we were, hugged a woman next to me, passed by me, as I patted him on the back, and continued along. The most amazing part of it? It wasn't pretentious. It was a conversation that had been begun at the top of the night. Keep in mind, this whole show, I was trying to keep my shit together. I didn't give a fuck about the band. I was taking pictures with my phone because I was surprised and really wanted something to do. By the time he got to me, I put my camera down. It seemed a breach of trust. It seemed embarrassing. That comfort and culture was created in the night. It was more than music. A relationship was built between the audience and the band. That is the brilliant point of an amazing live show. It is a conversation.

By the end of the song, he was back onstage. No problems, no hysteria, corded microphone and roadie intact. They performed their final song, indicating that they wanted everyone to sing along. The musicians unplugged their instruments. The singer stepped away from the microphone.Again. It was natural now. Everyone in this room together sang in chorus, "Vanderlylle, cry baby cry," and it was beautiful. It was church.

Leave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake

Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crbaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese

All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the

Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no suprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swan's are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese

Hangin' from chandeliers
Same small world
At your heels

All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the

Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
All the borders are risin'
Still no surprisin' you
Vanderlylle crybaby, cry
Man it's all been forgiven
Swans are a swimmin'
I'll explain everything to the geese

All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the
All the very best of us string ourselves up for the

I sang all of the wrong words, which I wouldn't have known had i not just googled the lyrics now. Goes to show that you hear what you need.. I sang, "All the very best of us string ourselves up for love...I'll explain everything to the geeks" I know that I'm not the only one and what matters is not the specificity, but the intent, the space, and the opportunity. A beautiful show. Perhaps the best show I have seen in a while. Terrible circumstances, wonderful company of equal awareness in absurdity of an extreme circumstance, and a band that really performs what they have written and recorded. Luck.

When I got home, I knew I had to settle the awareness I had been given in this random evening. I could have pretended the knowledge I gained didn't happen. I could have played dumb and changed the relationship without warning. I could have been cruel and dissolute. I could have gone along and tried to salvage a false extension, because I really didn't want to lose this love. But I knew that it was false, and that's not how I appreciate the luck of love. I could have lied. I considered it. I didn't want us to disappear. I was scared to death of it. But the fact is, I needed to open the conversation. I still believed in the beauty of the fruition of knowing each other. Clearly, I had had my doubts and scrutinies, it wouldn't be a heartbreak if there wasn't some sort of indication of a fall. It wouldn't be a cliff edge that you'd pace without the trust that the other person would protect and watch out for you. Even when I got home, I went directly to him, offering an inch of what I was told. I had hoped for a conversation.A soccer mom arm at the edge. And he jumped. He was done. No explanation, no need. Yoko didn't break up the Beatles. The Beatles decided not to continue. They jumped. Because they could. Sometimes, people jump. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you see a great show. Sometimes, your heart gets smashed into a million pieces. Sometimes, great bands play. Sometimes, you are both lucky and screwed. Points to the band that can play through that shit. Sheesh. The National- hats off to you! I'm still admiring the view, pacing the edge, pulling bits and pieces back together. I've never been a jumper. Like you, I like to admire and consider and articulate the right time to wade in. It just seems more authentic and respectful that way. I suppose I am drawn to the drama of cliffs, but I will always stop short. I will not jump nor fall. So give me the ocean. A world lives within the water.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TojO3l9CL4

The world is small

So, the world is small
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.

New city, still haven't written of the drive

In the midst of stasis
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE

of memory

I can tell a million stories
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.

This is of the Moon

From Wikipedia: Desire

Desire (emotion), a sense of longing or hoping
Desire (philosophy)
Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, selfish pursuit of wealth, power, or possessions
Interpersonal attraction
Libido, sexual desire according to Freud and psychoanalysis
Limerence, an involuntary state of intense romantic desire
Lust, intense craving for self gratification
Motivation, a thought that leads to an action
Preference, a concept in the social sciences, particularly economics
Taṇhā, craving in Buddhist psychology
Want, in economics

To transpose:

To sit and to wait,
holding propriety in a pose projected
Nodding only to an esteem
That means nothing, merely a choice in position
while assuming clarity.
A passive projection.
A worthy rumination.
A formula of frequent fruition that stands aside,
watching over,
rejecting reasons right and demeanors slight.
I have been undone and intrinsically bound.
He has been apparent and stringent and sound.
Now Finally screaming yes and learning limerance
Understanding the sight.
Having Awkwardly skirted in this light
That has been due to shine like the moon
With Jupiter at her hip
As she does so now
My eyes are serpent sponges
With brows aware and knit
to welcome this slip
This indulgence of night
This truth.
Our protective grip.
Sent to stare and skip
in perfection and blips.
The welcome of bliss.

Rediscovering Memphis

I had a plan. I had planned to document my drive from Chicago to Los Angeles as a meditative practice. I did so on the first day. After that, the plan was shirked in the blogosphere because, well...I wanted to enjoy the drive and found that there was a bit too much, and a bit too little, to record. So, I condensed. If I were to follow my path of travel, it would be done so in a silly photo-documentary of a Mr. Potatohead adventure pictoral that I sent to a friend, who was kind enough to indulge.

Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.

Rediscovering Memphis:

I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.

As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.

Day 1: Driving on 9

9-3-10

I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.

This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.

The Moon always shines

A dream that recurs.
Standing in an apartment I've never seen
Preparing a departure dinner
we didn't mean
I can’t make myself
this time
To welcome strangers never met
that hold the world of the prior shaped fantasy
with tweezers and tenfolds of control and consistency,
twilight and transition.
I am happy to comfort and extend in my cowering
Happy to primp and prepare in reprieve
So long as it is distant
so long as the tears defining our sleeves are clear.
(by tears I don't mean tears, I never do)
I've asked for guidance.
He pauses and asks to come to my home
overwhelmed
In need of escape
I agree and we are in the car
He drives, as I sit in the passenger seat
Watching the landscape slide by,
happy to go.
I lose control
My hand, my arm
lucid and aware and involuntary
No ability to stop the movement of my limbs toward his body
My hand to his knee.
Until impulse returns
I offer a friendly squeeze
A note of comaraderie
To his glance of surprise
and some suspect suspense
My hand, my arm
Darts back to my lap
Eyes to the landscape
And the sliding of time.
It happens again
This loss of control
Inebriation of intent
My hand, my arm
Pulling to his on the shift
Control comes quicker this time, stopping short of a touch
He reaches out and grabs my hand
Placing it under his on the shift
Relief
Fingers entwining
Finding
Pulsing
Greedy
Exposing
Apparent
Free.
We walk our hands in our arms
Exploring the moon
Up the back stairs
Into my moderate mess
And he speaks to me
Fingers entwined
"Don’t bother with this
Start serving yourself
Let your world out
Instead of trapping it in
Reach."
I agree
Shining high above our atmosphere
with the promise of inhibition
and the dream that recurs
once a month.
sometimes twice.
when we're lucky,
blessed
and full of a moon that turns blue
with a promise that can be temporary
restrained
free
or discarded,
The moon always shines.
in the recurrence of a dream.

Hot apple cider and Union Square

Today marks the two week point before I leave Chicago and head out to the West Coast.( Warning: this post will be particularly self-indulgent.) I have neither doubts nor qualms about leaving. The time has been right to do so for years, really, and I've had the grace of having made this decision in January, allowing me 9 full months to explore, assess and find a renewed love and care in this city. I leave Chicago with peace, gratitude and the strength that this city has instilled. I have always held fast to the belief and action of following through- do not leave a place or circumstance until you have had your full teaching and discipline. Note the moments of movement, growth and stasis, and keep going. I came to Chicago on a dramatic whim, and will leave having the benefits bred into my being into a denouement. Dramatic, sure, but it makes perfect sense.

And, holy shit-I'm leaving in two weeks. I keep expecting to feel a sense of something akin to remorse, but I don't. I keep expecting to stumble across a failure, but I haven't. I keep expecting to find disappointment, but disappointment only lies in the idea of staying, not of leaving. And I keep coming back to the idea of transition.

Definition time!

Transition:

1 a : passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another : change b : a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another
2 a : a musical modulation b : a musical passage leading from one section of a piece to another
3 : an abrupt change in energy state or level (as of an atomic nucleus or a molecule) usually accompanied by loss or gain of a single quantum of energy

And of relationships.

Relationship:

1 : the state of being related or interrelated
2 : the relation connecting or binding participants in a relationship: as a : kinship b : a specific instance or type of kinship
3 a : a state of affairs existing between those having relations or dealings b : a romantic or passionate attachment

I have started to recognize that all of my work deals with the crossing of relationships and transition. Not a very deep thought or association- it makes sense. Wordplay ,teaching, movement, visual work, friends, acquaintances, inspiration, navigation. They all connect and are made interesting with interpretation, perception, building, skill, technique and evolution. This summer, as I was leading a performance program in which my students were to build their own show, from the ground up, I found myself encouraging them to "look for the game," follow the game, and then break the rules with moments of improvisation and honesty, as it erupted, and go back. I've taught this program for years, and my teaching of it always contorts with each program, and this is the first time that game-play came out nearly immediately. When teaching, I stand by discipline first. I didn't recognize this unconscious shift in my teaching until, at week 2 of the 6 week program, one of my students responded to a question with, "Well, I was looking for the game, and here it is." And everyone nodded and understood. In a group of high school kids who ranged from 14-18, brought in from all parts of the city. Apparently, I had introduced game-play immediately, with discipline. And the result was, in 6 weeks, these kids wrote and performed a show that was really wonderful, honest, full and thought provoking. No matter what, they would have created a show they loved, as they all wrote, built, choreographed and directed it. The nature of the program, which is why it always works. I was surprised that I went a bit for the jugular of game-play immediately, but it makes sense, as I knew that this was my last performance program in chicago, and it was completely my teaching. Fuck it. No bullshit. Find the transition and the relationship, and that is where the interesting developments come to light. That's the story, in both theatre and in life. That is where you learn, assess and grow. Pen to paper, paint to canvas, word to ear, eye to eye.

As I've been packing and organizing, I have been coming upon my old journals, that I've kept throughout the years. It's a writer thing, I suppose. Most are shit, and just over-dramatic musings of consequence and broken hearted quandries. Conversations with God, really. They've been prominent materials in the whole Joe Lies project, and when I was younger, I recorded them with the want to review in wisdom at a later date. To examine youth. To be able to access honest ramblings and questions. As I leave Chicago, it is clear that I will be leaving these journals, save a few. I found a journal that I had shared with a boyfriend in Memphis, that we used to mail back and forth between Memphis and NYC. Here is a bit of the first entry:

8/26/98
Times of transition. These are the strangest, these are the most free, yet feel as though you are trapped without any escape other the eminent departure and a desire for clarity. Yet, that is neither clear, nor unclear, and you feel lost. These are the times when a stranger can change your life, simply by appearing. Safety is no longer an option, it is a tease. Suddenly, safety becomes untouchable and pristine, hovering just outside a reach that refuses to grasp. You try not to stare, because you're aware that safety is taunting you, flaunting itself in quiet power with a high-pitched giggle. You react by taunting it with comfort. You create each moment into a cherished memory. This is my last taste of this coffee. This is my last glimpse of this coffeeshop. You become a tease to the commonplace, the position you've held. You know you won't be here tomorrow. So you become a camera, recording and memorizing each moment as it occurs. Each acquaintance becomes a dear, lifelong friend. Yet, like clarity, this is neither true nor untrue. You're sitting in a coffeeshop.

The point of this is that it all remains the same. What was scrawled in a journal about the state of leaving as a 23 year old remains the same as I set out to leave another city as a 36 year old. Wisdom is in this identification. Things and circumstances change, but the weight of transition indicates how aware you choose to be. As I have spent the past 7 months returning to the people and places I have loved and known best,because I had chosen to transition, I have done so with a recording eye, not a nostalgic one. Nostalgia is welcome later. Right now, I'm looking for the games and laughing as I play them with glee. Why am I surprised that I asked my students to do the same, when it is clearly a skill and technique? I think I wouldn't have noticed it, were it not for my students bringing it to my attention in honest action and response. Beauty of teaching. It is a cyclical exchange.

Myths are public dreams; Dreams are private myths- Joseph Campbell

Oh, goodness gracious. How much fun is this performance project of Joe Lies?! A nice swan song for Chicago, a city where my favorite talented, driven and awesome friends are those who are in functioning bands that build, dissipate and transform with associations, logic and common interest. From the moment I entered Chicago, music, music culture and those relationships that are built of familiarity and support have defined my experience here. Chicago, as it contorts and cries to redefine itself, has a constant.The bands that exist here. Bands require intense relationships. Chicago is a city built on intensity and looking forward to the next step. As I spent nine years traversing the non-profit world of interdisciplinary art and education, relief came with my musician friends who were doing the same thing. And our hours matched, and some gorgeous friendships were made. These friendships were beautiful and consistent enough to make Joe Lies an easy band/ performance project/ silly playground to pursue.

To tie Joe Lies into the body of my work as a performance artist is easy. It is as simple as association, much like the Femme Fatale project. There are clear parallels between the two. The femme fatale project put an archetype from a clear genre of horror into a human atmosphere, showcasing ritual, isolation, humor and scrutiny. Joe Lies takes that a step further- still playing with the archetype of a powerful and influential woman- this time taken from a silly 80's film(Say Anything)- and offering the next step. We are a band. We play out. We need to build an audience. It is a play on the pop culture and influence with which I am familiar, clearly, and an association with which I could easily find my musician friends to jump and say, "Yes! Let's play! That's fucking funny." And we can play, make obscure references, have much fun, and build. What a treat to simply to build and explore because we find a common joke and association amusing. Sometimes, there is nothing more simple nor pure than just that. So, with the grace of this, the play has been wonderful and fun.

This is the point of both the Femme Fatale project and Joe Lies. They are both exaggerated character studies of an archetype put in a painfully pedestrian frame. While the Femme Fatale Project focused on isolation, Joe Lies teases and offers isolation as an impetus to build association and community. Lyrics are literally pulled from journals of real circumstance and played with in presentation. We play as a band. and we play with a real relationship of a band, hopefully, joyfully, and based on our comfort, practice and kinship. We are a relationship. As every band is. As every association is. As every tortured journal entry that we discover and explore promises to be. We have a goal, set by an archetype, to fulfill. Brilliance and ridiculousness will ensue. And that is what it is. Hilarious, uncertain, honest, and done when it is done. The relationship remains. And we have 63 songs. All about pain. All about you.

As read at CHIRP Radio(Chicago's Independent Radio Project- www. chirpradio.org) inaugural "The First Time Series" on April 28th, 2010. Originally, this had been posted after the event. However, the format was skewed...So, here it is again. Tying virginity to music... One in a Million is One More Than Me, by Karen Louis and great humility

From Wikipedia:

A virgin (or maiden) originally meant a woman who has never had sexual intercourse. Virginity is the state of being a virgin. It is derived from the Latin virgo, which means "sexually inexperienced woman", but also of older women, and even goddesses.[citation needed]

…another association of virginity—the notability of its loss. More properly, the association is with the significance of the addition of a new status, rather than a loss. Hence this association is typically found in references to the first instance of a potentially extended series of like events.

I’m a virgo. Virginity is my schtick. I like definitions. I can’t think about virginity, and the loss thereof, without associating when I recognized that it would be lost, at some point. And that I would, barring any unintentional traumatic theft, choose the loss of said virginity. I wanted it to be such a cool distraction. I wanted the idea to be musical, a journey of slides, steps and images made interesting by unexpected refrains that repeat and hook. And this was the late 80’s/early ‘90’s so you had this information: be safe, it’s going to hurt, it’s going to suck, protect yourself, oh, and by the way…you might die. Or get pregnant. And teenage pregnancy, by the way, is the equivalent of killing your youth. And the world, by the way, might collide, your heart, by the way, might break, and you may, by the way, fall in love and get married. So design your life now, before you know what it is, or how it can be taken from you or given to you! Because, no matter what, it’s all your fault, so question your desires. Virginity is supposed to be a big fucking deal. Boo. No fun. What a bother that would happen some day, at some point. So, I chose music over sex. It was an innocent choice, and much more fun. And music is always awash with love and clashing and things more interesting to me at a young age than an awkward experience that promises nothing more than a new status. An uncomfortable story to share in front of a room full of strangers. And a microphone.. If the loss of virginity was going to be such a chore, I wanted to decorate it. I wanted to be a muse, of sorts, so I searched music.

This is when I found Michael Penn. These are his muses(Law and order Dong dong)

A woman of common majesty. A waitress. A motorist. A nurse. An angel lost in a pedestrian eternity. A Dorothy Lamour who beats her reputation and circumstance by smiling quizzically, raising a brow. accepting the world and walking away, believing in her own disbelief. Beauty lives on the outskirts of action, watching and documenting in each peel of an orange, each heave of a metaphor, and therefore becomes the action. She is constantly out of reach and under skin. She can neither be caught, nor escaped. Her power is her placement in life and the luck that she is gracing the presence of a sensitive marksman in her public bower.


In the hey-day of the early ‘90’s we were inundated with the pull of fascination in explicit lyric warning labels, an age of legality to buy cigarettes and alcohol, and other vices that are less addictive than the tortured poet claiming the desire of pining over the purity of lost causes and undetermined hope wrapped in a world-wise woman rolling her eyes and waiting for her shift to end, her car to arrive, her ship to sail, only to turn and find you standing in hopeful anticipation, humming a catchy refrain and holding her bag that she had left three cities behind. Fuck you, Michael Penn. Fuck me. I was smitten. He was one in a million. Everyone was a muse. That’s what I wanted to be and to find.

I studied.

I had lots of boyfriends in high school, although I never recognized them as such. The boys I dated were muses themselves, of their own making, The sweet, kind, caring , enigmatic and Morrissey obsessed best friends who eventually came out of the closet with their very supportive best girl beside them(points to self), cheering them on and moving forward. If we ever really dated, or just experienced the world for a moment didn’t matter. I was the “last beautiful girlfriend.” We had awesome relationships, just not the kind that ended in sex.

Then there was the DJ playboy from Akron, who thought he looked like Morrissey, but was closer to Vanilla Ice, and would play songs for me at Thunders on Alternative night, talk on the phone for hours, and dedicate sets to me on the radio, but our physical intimacy would end at kissing , picnics, stories and my trusty friend Kim who would test the waters of his loyalty by telling him that I was a virgin, and she was not, then reveal that she pierces her body for each boy she has fucked while tucking her hair behind both of her ears that were decorated to capacity.

I brought Kim along to all of the punk shows in Cleveland, as well. She liked to fuck. I liked to fall in clandestined love with random strangers. We had a symbiotic relationship, I suppose. I was the one. She was the million. Or she was the one, I was the million.

I went to college a virgin, without Kim and her piercings. I fell in love my very first day, as I was prone to do, with an angst ridden boy in horn-rimmed glasses who didn’t seem to notice anything more than the disturbance settled around his brow and the Fugazi he blasted from his stereo. As I bounded up the stairs in a blonde glee, I knew we’d destroy each other in the end. I’d make him play with happiness as he brought misery to my blue-eyed plate. That was how college love was supposed to work, right? Knew it in an instant, as his doting and tall friend carefully moved his guitars. I was smitten, bounding and infatuated in the way we would one day meet and discover how our polar opposite muse-ridden teenage identities would clash. I was nearly 18.

I met his tall friend first. He was awkward and smarter than everyone. A comic book artist, a musician, an actor, an enigma wrapped up in Tim Finn hair and a nickname taken from Dune. I assumed he was gay when he asked me out, after watching me swing my sweater in boredom during a blocking rehearsal for a play we were in together. He made a terrible excuse of it. He told me that his friend(angst boy) had backed out of seeing a show, and that he found me amusing. So, I bit. Protected. Happy to be in the atmosphere of this world I admired. One step closer to the angst boy, and two steps closer to finding friends.

We went on our convenient date. We went back to his room, where friends who would become mine, sat around as he played guitar and smoked and he broke out into Michael Penn. My grin and comfort pricked as I admired his sculpture of cigarette butts in his industrial sized ashtray, and the comics he had drawn lining the molding of his 5’ x 10’ single dorm room. I was in love with everything. All of the clichés fit. Friends left, and he put his guitar away, put Michael in the Cd player and kissed me, and I began to laugh as Michael Penn sang, “She said she always pegged me as gay.” I told him that I had done the same, and he was encouraged. I took Kim’s role to tell him I was a virgin. And then we had sex. And it was appropriately awkward. A surprise, but not a mistake. Afterwards, he told me he loved me, and I politely dismissed it. The Michael Penn muse doesn’t fall for false, though sweet, proclamations of love. I had a walk of shame to enjoy with a wistful gait. Drama would ensue later, when I dated his angst ridden friend, and we appropriately destroyed each other, as fortold, but by that time, I had mused myself into a new status; Leonard Cohen back-up singer, something that can’t be done as a virgin.

Another workshop, another Joe Lies song

This one is about guacamole, in the spirit of trying to create a performance piece for "Night Roars: Live art Series v.3-House Party" I've been exploring how to perform making guacamole in performance while hosting, dealing with themes of home, security and chaos...and the human condition. 

Today's workshop was focused on music, which is not included in my Night Roars piece. However, I am in the process of studying the ingredients of "the perfect guacamole" and find myself stuck in a barrage of history while trying to build a script that is both literal, metaphoric and absurd. I'm finding that Joe Lies is a nice outlet of being outright cheesy-a perfect extreme. Condense it into a song, and play further with the elements that are interesting, right?

"The perfect guacamole" begins with "Alligator Skin"...the newest Joe Lies song!:)

Alligator Skin

Pierce your alligator skin

A samurai sword to lance your win

Separate half from a solid seed

A fleshy fruit and a salty need

Cross your cuts for assault or slander

Scandalous names to pet and pander

Splayed below in a bowl of woe

a lost and over-ripe avocado

We won't call this what it is

We won't call this now

You stand and sway with yellow hand

gripping and squeezing in demand

Drop a line in quick retreat

Adding acid to the meat

We won't call this what it is

We won't call this now

Remove the layers of asexual vice

Cloves of protection, a repelling spice

Here I stand, turning pink to red

Blushing away the words falsely said

We won't call this what it is

We won't call this now

I'm chopping colors to make this new

flavorful treat to admire and pursue

Forgoing history and fucking the how

The beauty of the future is in the now

We won't call this what it is

Choose another name

Pierce your alligator skin

Samurai sword set to win

we won't call this.

So, there it is- a song about guacamole. Pretty hilarious! And terribly dramatic! Although I totally stole the melody for the recording from The National. I have to fix that, somehow. Just can't stop listening to that band. They are so good!

Workshop Sunday

 

I am driven by process, in both creating work and in life on a grand scheme. What intrigues me further is the space of process: what is left behind in evidence: physically, emotionally, accidentally or intentionally in the necessity of continuing on. By no means, is this a new or insightful concept-it is just what it is: an actuality. Anything that grows or builds requires tools and stages that are essential until they are cast aside. In order to get to one place, one needs to leave another. What is left behind provides fertilizer for future growth. Plants shed their casings, leaves, and blossoms to the ground that enrich the soil. Having my own growth begin with theatre and the stage, there is little more beautiful and comforting to me than a stage lit only by a ghost light-an open and eerie space of charged inactivity, waiting to be filled, both vulnerable and incensed. All stages are haunted. Much of my personal body of work, teaching and study explores the many different stages that exist outside of the traditional theatre: on the street, in classrooms, museums, public spaces, characters, interactions, it goes on. The less likely conceived to be a stage, the more interesting to explore. The first indication of a stage is the information left behind as evidence. The histories and mythologies borne, explored, and rediscovered in a constant cycle inevitably set a pattern of overexposure, chaos, beauty, loss and mixed messages in clues and remnants left behind. The beauty I see in a ghost-lit stage is a comfort of a charged space at rest. The strength and clarity of the single ghost light is a beacon. It is the starting point in a process-familiar, protective, and simple with an atmosphere of tools, fertilizer and risks to engage or avert.

 

It is this task of engagement that I set myself out to explore with Striding Lion in the creation of the Night Roars: Live Art Series and the development workshops that lead up to the evening of short, interdisciplinary performances. Simply put, Night Roars: Live Art Series is a cabaret in three acts, featuring new works in development by Striding Lion and artists within the community in an atmosphere infused by creative stations, interactive elements and visual art developed through the workshop process. The entire evening is interactive celebrating works-in-progress, the live art community, and the spirit of performance. The workshops, determined by discipline, are designed as a consistent forum for feedback, generation of different angles and ideas within a work in progress, and a haven in which to play, take risks and create in an accessible, secure and supportive environment.

 

This afternoon, I hosted the first workshop in a series devoted to Night Roars v.3 “House Party” entitled, “Building Home: mapping memory, history and objects.” As is every introductory workshop in a cycle, this one is based in generating material based on environments and public spaces. This workshop is divided into three sections:

The first section was spent in discussion and feedback of our individual proposed pieces for the upcoming Night Roars event, giving us all a collective understanding of the nature of the work to be developed, the questions that arise from both the creators and community, and considerations as to where these questions and tasks may lead.

 

The second section is task-oriented. The proposals for “House Party” are divided by the themes of home, security and chaos. I presented three definitions to the group(all pulled from Wikipedia):

 

A home is a place of residence or refuge comfort.[1] It is usually a place in which an individual or a family can rest and be able to store personal property. Most modern-day households contain sanitary facilities and a means of preparing food. Animals have their own homes as well, either living in the wild or in a domesticated environment. As an alternative to the definition of "home" as a physical locale, home may be perceived to have no physical definition--instead, home may relate instead to a mental or emotional state of refuge or comfort.

There are certain cultures in which members lack permanent homes, such as with nomadic people. 

Security is the degree of protection against danger, loss, and criminals. 

Chaos (derived from the Ancient Greek Χάος, Chaos) typically means a state lacking order or predictability. In ancient Greece, it first meant the initial state of the universe, and, by extension, space, darkness, or an abyss[1] (the antithetical concept was cosmos), but later uses of the term by philosophers varied over time. In modern English, the word is used in classical studies with the original meaning; in mathematics and science to refer to a very specific kind of unpredictability; and informally to mean a state of confusion.[2] In philosophy, and in popular culture, the word can occur with all three meanings. 

 

With these definitions and the following tools and instructions, the group dispersed to explore neighborhood.

 

Tools to be used:

Stream of consciousness writing: For five minutes minimum, set your pen on your paper and write without letting your pen leave the paper. Allow yourself to just write, keeping no mind of format, disruption, change in direction to deter the writing. Just write.

Gesture/movement observation:  putting the observation of gesture into your own body.

Sound/echoes: Listen to the sounds around you, and articulate them in your own voice or sounds you can make. Pay attention to echoes. Note them.

Personal perspective: infuses everything. If you have a piece in mind, identify the  findings that are unexpected. If you are searching for a piece: identify the correlation(association) between what you find familiar versus what you find  interesting.

Glean: take what you can from the atmosphere with what you have to collect-gestures, sounds, bits of conversations, objects, photographs

 

Using these tools:

walk until you are caught by something.(note-if you are not caught by something as ambiguous as “something,” walk along paths until they lead into a building or change of atmosphere.)

Attach yourself to a tool that attracts you. Use it. If one leads to another, use those, too. Use at least 3 tools

Find a way to subtly interact with/as a watcher(Don’t freak anyone out, just make a human connection of some sort)

Record this in some way, using tools  as described.

 

Once everyone returned from their independent journey, we took to creating “maps” of our journeys using collage, shadow boxes and visual work. Fun stuff. Among the items brought back into the space were a few 1961 records of Hansel and Gretel, Disney’s Three Little Pigs, and some Vintage “Better Homes and Gardens/Ladies home Journal” magazines. We played the records, which were eerily creepy and familiar, boasting a Wolf Spanking Machine, and an evil Big, Bad Wolf who spoke only in German, advertisements for battery operated “personal massagers”  and quizes from 1970 determining how tolerant women should be of extramarital affairs. Home, security, chaos…indeed. The collages built were interesting, chaotic and concise. A fun Sunday.

 

Past workshops include:

 

Title: Looking for love in all public spaces

Description: Writing exercises, observations, storytelling and interaction will be used to generate ideas and storylines as connective tissue by taking part in a scavenger hunt gleaning objects, emotions, tasks, interactions and development of relationships between people, architecture, objects and atmospheres to create uncover the love stories that take place all around us.

Location: Water Tower Place

Designed for: Artists of all disciplines seeking to generate material and transitions in new and developing work, overcoming creative blocks, and gleaning ideas and concepts from public arenas.

Led by Associate Artistic Director, Karen Louis. Karen has worked as a performer, teaching artist, costume designer and every other hat known to be worn with Striding Lion since 2002. She received a B.A.(Theatre) from the College of Wooster and an M.A.(Interdisciplinary Arts) from Columbia College. As a performer and teaching artist, she has also worked with The Women's Project and Productions(NYC), Playhouse on the Square(Memphis, TN), Healthworks Theatre(Chicago), and many other places along the way.

 

Title: Reinterpreting Fairy Tales-an exercise in music, movement and mythologies

Description: A selected fairy tale will be presented and expanded upon using music, movement exercises and clowning techniques.

Led by Company member, Dana Dardai. Dana Dardai has worked with the Neo-Futurists, Filament Theater,Stockyards Theater Project, New Leaf Theatre, and New Millennium. She is a teaching ensemble member of the Striding Lion InterArts Workshop and co-composed and performed on their album, "Birdsongs". She has also composed and directed music for "A.W.O.L" with the clown troupe Eleffant Foot. Dana studied the violin, voice and viola at the University of Evansville, clown with 500 clown and movement at Joel Hall and the Salt Creek Ballet.

 

Title: Visualizing Time

Description: Artists explore concepts of time, memory and mapping using movement, contact improvisation and text.

Led by Amanda Exley Lower - a modern dancer, choreographer, and the artistic director of Duende Dance Theater. A mom of two, she shares her passion for movement through performances, residencies, and classes.

 

Title:Necessary dialogues( Social Theatre/Theatre of the Oppressed)

Description: An exploration into building narrative and concepts of political thought through theatrical presentation. What is considered political? How is it articulated through the written word, body and performance? Where do these performances take place? What is the greater cultural meaning/evidence?

 

Title: Musical Duct Tape

Description: Designed to use sound, rhythm and songwriting techniques to explore deeper themes within presented work and further development of musical ideas.

Designed for: Those seeking to explore sound and music within their work and techniques in which to expand or instigate musical ideas.

Led by Christian Rogala, a Striding Lion Company Member for three years, an Honor Graduate at Berklee College of Music, Member of Fluid Minds: a Chicago based Rock Group. Also plays with many other musicians and styles of music.

 

Title: Characters, playing, speed-dating, Oh my! It’s a showcase showdown!

 

Description: Exploring the relationship between character identities, costuming, and engaging the audience, artists will play with character development, building, constructing and contorting costumes/props, and audience participation/engagement ideas to be used in the Night Roars event. Presentations will be set up in the schedule of appearance, games played, music continued, final thoughts and considerations.

Led by Karen Louis