Focus Groups Don't
Failure is Fine
My husband killed themselves
lets not get into -ists and -isms
What do we lose to fear?
I went to ask a bloke a question about a book I couldn't find.
Health and Safety GONE MAD
A middle went by me. I think I missed it.
RAISING AWARENESS
surely the only reason you know about this is because your awareness has been raised. As you're not an expert on the subject, you're not someone who has studied it diligently and silently for a decade, the fact that you're putting on this show is a testament to someone else's earlier success in this venture.
Ben had the power given to him to trim a notable persons list by 10 pages to make a book fit in the pages allotted to it. He started by cutting entries wherein the notable person was cited for "raising awareness" to make room for people who "did something functional."
One minute with a mirror:
ew ew ew red spotty greasy big pores big spots ow fat chin must be retaining water not normal i'm looking at me looking at me, hair glasses greasy dirty scars dirty ugly so ugly curly hair fat chin fat neck maybe its the angle blue not so big bloodshot not nice
-we never know what we look like to anyone else
-I didn't get too deep, i just spent my time hating on me.
-Oh Naomi Wolf, I've disappointed you.
-It's not my job to be beautiful, I don't have to, I just need to love myself...oh who am I kidding?
Steady
Hold Tight
Keep Safe
Wants Free
Let It Free
Oh JOY
So LIVE
So ALIVE
touch
It loves me
It Hugs me
It hugs Tight
Too tight
TOO TIGHT
It Ensnares
Trapped
Help
HELP
So Tangled
Tight
respond to material/become material
through exertion and playfulness we may explore and remove the body's limitations.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Lecture Notes (c)
The more theatre expands, the more it decides to become avant garde, the more it removes itself from the proscenium arch...the weirder it gets.
-at what point does it stop being Theatre?
-at what point does it stop being Entertainment?
Is this a game, or a play? Follow the directions and you'll be rewarded with the end.
Arrogance, bourgeois mentalities--theatre with narrative is low--theatre people pay to see is common, therefore inferior. But nobody pays to come to experimental weirdness, so keep your day job.
theatre of games. performance can be packaged up and sent out all over the world--can you expose the puppeteer if the puppeteer is nowhere to be found?
-it's ridiculous, but if you agree to play along, is it fun?
It will be there when you're gone--how will it work then?
Open-ended gaming like the Sims, Grand Theft Auto, non-competitive participation--geocacheing, scavenger hunts and the like
1st person voice. How is this ethical? Is it a good idea to have people talking of and about themselves--especially non-actors? This should not be taken lightly.
-What is the impact of forcing someone's hand? Do the experience the side-effects or after-effects of saying "me?" Can it be harmful?
-Is it a documentary or a performance?
-Could this become a way to take over the world?
----
Why can't gay men just be gay men without being caught up in the femininity of being penetrated? I DO NOT DEFINE MYSELF THROUGH SEXUAL PENETRATION. I don't define myself through/of/in relation to/because of my vagina. It's an organ. It's part of my body, like my pancreas. I have sex the way I have sex. I eat a sandwich the way I eat a sandwich. The fact that I have vaginal sex with a man does not define me as myself, or my femininity. I will not be marginalized by gay men with no sexual identity. Gay male sexual identity is just that--gay male. No gay man should feel the need or desire to identify with one or another heterosexual identity, as he doesn't have one. It's an independent entity. They should feel proud of that. But no, instead they piggyback onto someone else's -ism, try to redefine the asshole as the fucking womb. I DON'T HAVE A WOMB. I have a uterus. It's an organ. Not a home. It does not fill me with a sense of comfort or warmth. It is a monthly bio-hazard. A regular inconvenience. It gives me pain because when the cervix is obstructed it constricts blood flow to the area because human evolution has reached a cul-de-sac, not because it inspires in me any great longing for fucking motherhood or completion through connection to the penis.
I recognize biology and psychology are linked inseparably by endocrinology--I have felt on more than one occasion the moment that I metabolized a hunger-released chemical and grew irrationally, violently angry. That's how I react to it, and primal and uncontrolled as that may be, it's part of my physiology. I know the pain and nausea of a sudden adrenalin rush, and the relief that comes after when it turns out to have been a false alarm. I've reached a point in my self-awareness that when I feel bad for no social or easily-identifiable interpersonal reason, I have the ability to retreat into my mind and body to figure out what has led to this feeling. Aha, I'm hungry. Oh, my leg hurts and I've been ignoring it. Oh, fuck, it's that time of the goddamn month. Yes, my reproductive bits do have control over my body and mind. Yes, the fact that I'm female does play a part in who I am. But I refuse to define myself by that. Those urges, those pains, those impulses and emotions and outbursts aren't me. They're a much deeper, animal part of my brain that doesn't give a wet slap about me, who I've decided to be. So I do my best to live around it. Think outside of the female. Think away from the gender. Think only in the relevant. That's not masculine. I only appreciate the emotions and thoughts that come from my conscious mind--the ones that are mine, not those of the species.
-at what point does it stop being Theatre?
-at what point does it stop being Entertainment?
Is this a game, or a play? Follow the directions and you'll be rewarded with the end.
Arrogance, bourgeois mentalities--theatre with narrative is low--theatre people pay to see is common, therefore inferior. But nobody pays to come to experimental weirdness, so keep your day job.
theatre of games. performance can be packaged up and sent out all over the world--can you expose the puppeteer if the puppeteer is nowhere to be found?
-it's ridiculous, but if you agree to play along, is it fun?
It will be there when you're gone--how will it work then?
Open-ended gaming like the Sims, Grand Theft Auto, non-competitive participation--geocacheing, scavenger hunts and the like
1st person voice. How is this ethical? Is it a good idea to have people talking of and about themselves--especially non-actors? This should not be taken lightly.
-What is the impact of forcing someone's hand? Do the experience the side-effects or after-effects of saying "me?" Can it be harmful?
-Is it a documentary or a performance?
-Could this become a way to take over the world?
----
Why can't gay men just be gay men without being caught up in the femininity of being penetrated? I DO NOT DEFINE MYSELF THROUGH SEXUAL PENETRATION. I don't define myself through/of/in relation to/because of my vagina. It's an organ. It's part of my body, like my pancreas. I have sex the way I have sex. I eat a sandwich the way I eat a sandwich. The fact that I have vaginal sex with a man does not define me as myself, or my femininity. I will not be marginalized by gay men with no sexual identity. Gay male sexual identity is just that--gay male. No gay man should feel the need or desire to identify with one or another heterosexual identity, as he doesn't have one. It's an independent entity. They should feel proud of that. But no, instead they piggyback onto someone else's -ism, try to redefine the asshole as the fucking womb. I DON'T HAVE A WOMB. I have a uterus. It's an organ. Not a home. It does not fill me with a sense of comfort or warmth. It is a monthly bio-hazard. A regular inconvenience. It gives me pain because when the cervix is obstructed it constricts blood flow to the area because human evolution has reached a cul-de-sac, not because it inspires in me any great longing for fucking motherhood or completion through connection to the penis.
I recognize biology and psychology are linked inseparably by endocrinology--I have felt on more than one occasion the moment that I metabolized a hunger-released chemical and grew irrationally, violently angry. That's how I react to it, and primal and uncontrolled as that may be, it's part of my physiology. I know the pain and nausea of a sudden adrenalin rush, and the relief that comes after when it turns out to have been a false alarm. I've reached a point in my self-awareness that when I feel bad for no social or easily-identifiable interpersonal reason, I have the ability to retreat into my mind and body to figure out what has led to this feeling. Aha, I'm hungry. Oh, my leg hurts and I've been ignoring it. Oh, fuck, it's that time of the goddamn month. Yes, my reproductive bits do have control over my body and mind. Yes, the fact that I'm female does play a part in who I am. But I refuse to define myself by that. Those urges, those pains, those impulses and emotions and outbursts aren't me. They're a much deeper, animal part of my brain that doesn't give a wet slap about me, who I've decided to be. So I do my best to live around it. Think outside of the female. Think away from the gender. Think only in the relevant. That's not masculine. I only appreciate the emotions and thoughts that come from my conscious mind--the ones that are mine, not those of the species.
Lecture Notes (b)
(unedited.)
allegory/representation--storytelling/narrative: pure abstraction
What are they telling me, what is real, what is super-real?
Certain physical gestures are imprinted, are meaningful or significant in western society--how can this cultural memory affect meaning onstage?
At what point does academic or legal writing become poetry?
The classical form of theatrical representation is absolutely respected--but it is hollow, and like the hermit crab, we may walk around in its empty shell. (who said this?)
Tragedy should be detached from disaster and real life awful occurrences and situations-tragedy implies much more than the slaughter of innocents, but requires the invocation of deadly sin, not just horrible weather or insanity.
The definition of art precludes chaos--art is intentional.
yet inclusion of chaos may be intentional. dramaturgy may include chance.
philosophy and theatre are venues for removal of the mind from the mundane and functional--these areas offer the opportunity to reflect on the nature of being and even to call into question or negate established thinking and concord to that end.
-why do we reject narrative?
why does art seek purity of form--why are we obsessed with escaping representation, when in any instance art IS representation? Are we ashamed of the falseness of art? It isn't real. It won't be. The moment art becomes real it becomes functional, it becomes architecture or product design. A beautifully functional object is an appliance. A tool. A beautifully functional set of movements is a maneuver, not a dance. Analysis of art is the process of shoving your head into your head.
The bauhaus tried to make the human form an abstraction. varying degrees of success. (Surely after a while they gave up and admitted it was dance?) How do you make a human being abstract without hurting them? To what extent is this ethical?
People outraged at what a production isn't--what the observer believes the production failed to do, failing to realize that what wasn't there was never intended to be there.
We must recognize that art cannot be life, and art cannot exist without some medium, some means of communicating itself to the observer. Why then do we belabor the pure form, the medium-free ideal? After a while this becomes a religion--eternal pursuit of an impossible, useless, inhuman, unreal ideology.
If it is real, is it theatre anymore?
When does sensationalism cross the line from catharsis to experience?
Public execution is, or at least historically has been, a form of entertainment. But at the end, the executed does not take a bow. It is real. But is it theatre?
allegory/representation--storytelling/narrative: pure abstraction
What are they telling me, what is real, what is super-real?
Certain physical gestures are imprinted, are meaningful or significant in western society--how can this cultural memory affect meaning onstage?
At what point does academic or legal writing become poetry?
The classical form of theatrical representation is absolutely respected--but it is hollow, and like the hermit crab, we may walk around in its empty shell. (who said this?)
Tragedy should be detached from disaster and real life awful occurrences and situations-tragedy implies much more than the slaughter of innocents, but requires the invocation of deadly sin, not just horrible weather or insanity.
The definition of art precludes chaos--art is intentional.
yet inclusion of chaos may be intentional. dramaturgy may include chance.
philosophy and theatre are venues for removal of the mind from the mundane and functional--these areas offer the opportunity to reflect on the nature of being and even to call into question or negate established thinking and concord to that end.
-why do we reject narrative?
why does art seek purity of form--why are we obsessed with escaping representation, when in any instance art IS representation? Are we ashamed of the falseness of art? It isn't real. It won't be. The moment art becomes real it becomes functional, it becomes architecture or product design. A beautifully functional object is an appliance. A tool. A beautifully functional set of movements is a maneuver, not a dance. Analysis of art is the process of shoving your head into your head.
The bauhaus tried to make the human form an abstraction. varying degrees of success. (Surely after a while they gave up and admitted it was dance?) How do you make a human being abstract without hurting them? To what extent is this ethical?
People outraged at what a production isn't--what the observer believes the production failed to do, failing to realize that what wasn't there was never intended to be there.
We must recognize that art cannot be life, and art cannot exist without some medium, some means of communicating itself to the observer. Why then do we belabor the pure form, the medium-free ideal? After a while this becomes a religion--eternal pursuit of an impossible, useless, inhuman, unreal ideology.
If it is real, is it theatre anymore?
When does sensationalism cross the line from catharsis to experience?
Public execution is, or at least historically has been, a form of entertainment. But at the end, the executed does not take a bow. It is real. But is it theatre?
Lecture Notes
(Unedited.)
This course is just a proposition. The documentation represents "my state of ignorance."
Man licking a stone. This is silly.
Between the image and ourselves is the question of meaning.
There is no effort without resistance.
"Man licks rock" is a description. "Desire" implies that the rock represents something, or calls into question the relationship between the man and the object.
The space of language
Enigma is inherent in and inalienable from the artwork itself.
How to make him cringe--ask him what it was about.
Why are you making performance? Engaging, re-articulating the action of performance as what you're tring to explain, the question you're trying to address.
Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Try not to scream.
You have nothing to say. Your work is deliberately meaningless, not because you want to offer your audience the opportunity to extrapolate their own meaning, but because you're vapid.
To suggest that art may stand independently from the interpretation or comprehension of man is to suggest an elephant's ass can stand independent from its ears. Art is not absolute, and art is meaningless outside comprehension, or at the very least man's attempt thereto. Without recognition, sculpture is stone alone. Drama is sound and movement. ART IS NOTHING AT ALL.
Lea Vergine: Body Art and Performance. To what extent is the body expressive? Material expressive?
Oh Gina Pane, you with your sadly relevant name.
The Wisdom of Art. Oh for fuck's sake, answer a goddamn question. Prove to me you're listening at all.
Live performance has an intensity that cannot be found in the inanimate--there is a sense of urgency. (In the case of Gina Pane, the urgent issue is getting a tourniquet positioned.)
The question here is not one of the body as art. The question is at what point does it cease to be art and becomes, or becomes recognizably, the masochistic outbursts of the mentally unwell? To what extent are the products of the insane art? Art is not necessarily with--or without--meaning. To what extent should we study art produced by the certifiably insane? As art, or as diagnosis--as progress reports within treatment?
I'm sorry, I don't feel the artist's pain, and I don't hear the language of the bleeding body. Luckily enough for me, I'm not completely detached from reality.
I'm trapped in the mundane. That's what it is. I find this meaningless not simply because it is without meaning, but because I do not have the capacity to comprehend or value form for form's sake. Can we conclude that no one has said anything coherent in the past two hours? If theatre is an assemblage, does it have a medium? Or Is it a medium? I think it probably is the medium of communication. Now we're watching a film, obviously intended to be film, so as to stimulate discussion of live theatre.
I don't think this guy believes this stuff anymore. He can't align his thoughts because he no longer thinks them.
Staged discontinuity. Pretending it's live, pretending it's real. Theatre is a lie.
Try to trace the shadow of the hand that's tracing. Try it.
This course is just a proposition. The documentation represents "my state of ignorance."
Man licking a stone. This is silly.
Between the image and ourselves is the question of meaning.
There is no effort without resistance.
"Man licks rock" is a description. "Desire" implies that the rock represents something, or calls into question the relationship between the man and the object.
The space of language
Enigma is inherent in and inalienable from the artwork itself.
How to make him cringe--ask him what it was about.
Why are you making performance? Engaging, re-articulating the action of performance as what you're tring to explain, the question you're trying to address.
Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Try not to scream.
You have nothing to say. Your work is deliberately meaningless, not because you want to offer your audience the opportunity to extrapolate their own meaning, but because you're vapid.
To suggest that art may stand independently from the interpretation or comprehension of man is to suggest an elephant's ass can stand independent from its ears. Art is not absolute, and art is meaningless outside comprehension, or at the very least man's attempt thereto. Without recognition, sculpture is stone alone. Drama is sound and movement. ART IS NOTHING AT ALL.
Lea Vergine: Body Art and Performance. To what extent is the body expressive? Material expressive?
Oh Gina Pane, you with your sadly relevant name.
The Wisdom of Art. Oh for fuck's sake, answer a goddamn question. Prove to me you're listening at all.
Live performance has an intensity that cannot be found in the inanimate--there is a sense of urgency. (In the case of Gina Pane, the urgent issue is getting a tourniquet positioned.)
The question here is not one of the body as art. The question is at what point does it cease to be art and becomes, or becomes recognizably, the masochistic outbursts of the mentally unwell? To what extent are the products of the insane art? Art is not necessarily with--or without--meaning. To what extent should we study art produced by the certifiably insane? As art, or as diagnosis--as progress reports within treatment?
I'm sorry, I don't feel the artist's pain, and I don't hear the language of the bleeding body. Luckily enough for me, I'm not completely detached from reality.
I'm trapped in the mundane. That's what it is. I find this meaningless not simply because it is without meaning, but because I do not have the capacity to comprehend or value form for form's sake. Can we conclude that no one has said anything coherent in the past two hours? If theatre is an assemblage, does it have a medium? Or Is it a medium? I think it probably is the medium of communication. Now we're watching a film, obviously intended to be film, so as to stimulate discussion of live theatre.
I don't think this guy believes this stuff anymore. He can't align his thoughts because he no longer thinks them.
Staged discontinuity. Pretending it's live, pretending it's real. Theatre is a lie.
Try to trace the shadow of the hand that's tracing. Try it.
Bus?
Brick wall. Bus. Brick wall. Bus. Whack? Crash? Bang. Bricked-over emergency exit. No way out, man. We're trapped here. Trapped in the boredom of a bus. Explore boredom?
These entities have nothing in common.
designed for beauty/designed for function
static historic/dynamic modern
open airy/closed stagnant
floral pastoral/plastic urban
where i'd like to be/where i am--cliche?
Are these blendable?
would a shared T-like space be preferable?
projection? If a 10 minute video of a bus ride is pieced together, could we project it on a brick wall? What the hell would that even mean?
Size--full wall, walk-in? Small to give sense of small--enclosed--but audience is outside, looking in, unlike bus riders, more like people in a garden watching a bus go by. Emergency exit from realityBricked over emergency exit. Symbolism? Undesired symbolism? Emergency exit through a hole in the wall?
Floral bus? Realistic flowers/cartoon flowers? Real-natural chairs? Not full sized. No. What can fill in? Feel sense of enclosure, removal from it. Outside an enclosure?
Should we fly it?
Raise it above head-height, use a ladder. Control vantage point of viewing.
Stop motion animation of flowers growing through seats?
Include real dirt?
Utilize over-door exit sign, natural daylight.
Corner Notes: 14 October 2009
Overgrown formal garden, 1700's build. Oxley Woods, off green chain walk, Eltham, Greenwich, 10 AM. Used to be off an old manor house (not currently standing)
Two old men, one with earrings and a small excitable dog, one who fought in WWII with a newspaper and a stack of mail--discuss the history of the area. This tree--see how it leans? That's still here from the hurricane in '87. That was probably before you were born. Good dentures.
The manor house--where that garden is now--had a lady in it who built that little castle on the hill. Had a little cafe in it when I was younger. The city says they want to fix it up, but that'll be lottery money. The government takes 12% out of that in tax! Can you believe that? You play some numbers, try to win a prize, and you get taxed for it!
You can see back here, it goes pink before it goes red. Lovely October, don't you think?
They used to have 12 gardeners here, when I was a lad. Told us to keep off the grass and we did. Now we're lucky if it gets cut at all. At least they cleaned the graffiti off. We think they're getting it ready for 2012.
----Roses past their prime. Some of the bricks have been cleaned. A doorway is newly bricked over. Wisteria grows rampant.----
-Pressed mushrooms, flowers
-Rubbing of bricks (not great)
-isometric rendering of space
-70 photos.
Two old men, one with earrings and a small excitable dog, one who fought in WWII with a newspaper and a stack of mail--discuss the history of the area. This tree--see how it leans? That's still here from the hurricane in '87. That was probably before you were born. Good dentures.
The manor house--where that garden is now--had a lady in it who built that little castle on the hill. Had a little cafe in it when I was younger. The city says they want to fix it up, but that'll be lottery money. The government takes 12% out of that in tax! Can you believe that? You play some numbers, try to win a prize, and you get taxed for it!
You can see back here, it goes pink before it goes red. Lovely October, don't you think?
They used to have 12 gardeners here, when I was a lad. Told us to keep off the grass and we did. Now we're lucky if it gets cut at all. At least they cleaned the graffiti off. We think they're getting it ready for 2012.
----Roses past their prime. Some of the bricks have been cleaned. A doorway is newly bricked over. Wisteria grows rampant.----
-Pressed mushrooms, flowers
-Rubbing of bricks (not great)
-isometric rendering of space
-70 photos.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Back in Business
Three weeks into my sister's marriage and two weeks into our new home and we have internet up and running, so I'm going to be catching up. (and posting handwritten journal entries and notes in one huge plop.)
That said, I'm typing this from the school cafeteria. Oh well.
That said, I'm typing this from the school cafeteria. Oh well.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
disjointed research questions
How do we as theatre-makers and awareness-raisers undermine our own points by making the effort to raise awareness? How can we improve the efficacy of our campaigns while sticking to our causes?
To what extent can awareness raising campaigns be effective? To what extent do they propagate misinformation simply by occurring? To what extent do we alienate people by belaboring the importance of our particular cause?
Is it responsible to attempt to inform the public about relevant issues through such easily misinterpreted forms as theatre, dance, and protest events?
Do we as theatre-makers--as opposed to lung surgeons, zoologists, cardiologists, and other specialized experts--have the right to adopt issues and attempt to publicize them?
How Liable are we when the information we spread turns out to be wrong, or if people simply get the wrong idea?
Many organizations' motives are undermined by their own mis-handling--environmental groups hand out glossy, pollution-producing leaflets and promotional materials; adult children of abusers with grudges attempt to run youth leadership camps; charities spend most of their donated revenue on advertisements to try and encourage donations, and more. How do we ensure that we're doing what we say we're doing? How do good ideas get out of hand and become messy middle-managed mass-media-marketed monstrosities? (How does HALO Trust differ in goal and scope from Climate Camp?)
We're hit in the face with this sort of attention-seeking behavior all the time, in all forms of media. To what extent do audiences pay attention? What does it take these days to get attention?
Frequently, large public displays get out of control and lead to rioting and vandalism. Some participants consider illegal behavior justified if their hearts are in the right place. Do uninvolved people agree? Is it worth it to attempt public displays if they have the potential to give our causes a bad name?
To what extent can awareness raising campaigns be effective? To what extent do they propagate misinformation simply by occurring? To what extent do we alienate people by belaboring the importance of our particular cause?
Is it responsible to attempt to inform the public about relevant issues through such easily misinterpreted forms as theatre, dance, and protest events?
Do we as theatre-makers--as opposed to lung surgeons, zoologists, cardiologists, and other specialized experts--have the right to adopt issues and attempt to publicize them?
How Liable are we when the information we spread turns out to be wrong, or if people simply get the wrong idea?
Many organizations' motives are undermined by their own mis-handling--environmental groups hand out glossy, pollution-producing leaflets and promotional materials; adult children of abusers with grudges attempt to run youth leadership camps; charities spend most of their donated revenue on advertisements to try and encourage donations, and more. How do we ensure that we're doing what we say we're doing? How do good ideas get out of hand and become messy middle-managed mass-media-marketed monstrosities? (How does HALO Trust differ in goal and scope from Climate Camp?)
We're hit in the face with this sort of attention-seeking behavior all the time, in all forms of media. To what extent do audiences pay attention? What does it take these days to get attention?
Frequently, large public displays get out of control and lead to rioting and vandalism. Some participants consider illegal behavior justified if their hearts are in the right place. Do uninvolved people agree? Is it worth it to attempt public displays if they have the potential to give our causes a bad name?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Croatan Ridge
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Currently stateside. North Carolina. Cape Hatteras. The lighthouse's historic beam swings through our northern window every seven seconds throughout the night. Blink. Whoosh. Blink. I'm sipping a cold Fat Tire and tuning in and out of my extended family's conversations in the rental palace's olympic-sized kitchen. Blink. Whoosh. Blink. The sun has set and the 5-story tennis court on stilts is emitting a warm, cozy glow. The mother of the bride is panicking in a good-natured way. Blink. Whoosh. ... ...
Well, it does when the island has power.
It tends to lose this luxury when it's swept with gale-force winds for two days straight, accompanied by driving rain that pelts your windscreen with hailstone-like force. As burial of electric mains in flood-prone sand would result in little other than an established regimen of time-wasting for digging crews, the pole-strung power lines get a little wiggly and unreliable during hurricane season.
It would appear that we chose an inopportune moment to brave the barren, dune-covered emptiness of Highway 12, the sole route through the Outer Banks, as Hurricane Ida had decided to vent the last of her remaining fury somewhere between Kitty Hawk and Ocracoke. Pea Island, an untouched nature preserve, was a particularly hairy area to motor through at a crawl--I'm not sure if the head-on sideways rain, the headlight-deep puddles, the utter lack of visibility, the waves crashing over the dunes and onto the car, or the giant heaps of relocated sand dunes were the scariest bit. The roads and bridges were studded with the remains of shorebirds flung into traffic and trees by the relentless wind. For a while I thought it was snowing, but upon closer inspection--while fording a particularly deep road-river--I realized it was very fine, very rapidly moving white sand. Those lovely white-sand beaches. My shaking white-knuckled hands.
Friday, 13 November 2009
We really should have taken today's significant date into consideration when making plans for such an emotionally, spiritually charged event as a wedding. Today the bridge is closed and the rest of the road is periodically filled with crushing waves. The dunes, plasmodic and mobile while I was driving in two nights ago, completely broke, and the ocean is now hogging all lanes of traffic. The only route into and out of Cape Hatteras is under two feet of water, and the road surface itself is destroyed. The Chesapeake Bridge/Tunnel is closed, and all ferry service to the outer banks has been suspended until the storm surge subsides. We've been asked to sit tight, and that's precisely all we can do. My sister is remarkably calm.
Road crews can't get out to the missing areas to begin rebuilding--apparently work vehicles have been washed away and sunk into the sand. The wind is a sustained 50mph gust, coming from the west. All docks are underwater. The second guest house, Sushi, is standing in about 6" of seawater. The front yard has choppy waves.
Family and friends are doing amazing things in spite of or perhaps because of this. The food has been amazing and has come in copious quantities. Everyone is so helpful and selfless. The wedding has been officially moved to the pool house--the upstairs of which is a large, empty hall. We filled it with chairs--originally intended to go around tables outside just for the reception, as the wedding was supposed to be all-standing on the lawn. Instead it has an aisle--something my sister never really wanted to do--and we will have a processional. The bride and groom's friends couldn't have been better suited to make these changes--all the electricians, lighting designers, stage managers, and carpenters pulled out their skills and artistic eyes and made the space beautiful. The seating chart was re-drawn in VectorWorks to fit the dimensions of the hall.
We got our nails done--I have a French manicure. It's lovely.
50 guests, caterers, the musician, the photographer, the hairdresser, and the officiant are stranded on another island. There's no way in hell they're going to get here. Another guest, purely out of a sense of necessity, went and got himself ordained online this morning and can perform the ceremony if it comes to it. The guests are mostly family. We're seeing if we can set up video Skype and have that in a separate party location. The bride is holding it together, but tensions are high. The mother of the bride is starting to crack. The father of the bride is trying to pull a kite off the roof with a fishing pole. It's the most appropriate thing to do, really. My date for the wedding is dismantling my banjo to fit it in the suitcase.
The wedding rehearsal has been postponed until we have a better idea of which ceremony participants will be able to get here. The food for the rehearsal dinner is stuck with the caterers. The fresh fish was going to spoil even in the fridges that the hotel was kind enough to share, so they gave the ingredients to whichever hotel staff could use it. The North Carolina Department of Transportation is on a first-name basis with many of the bridal party and guests. All of the locals know about the wedding and have been hugely accommodating. Dad has the only truck with a high enough chassis to make it down the driveway--the water is 2' deep in places--so when we realized that there was no dinner he went to pick it up from a nice restaurant a few miles away. They're not really a take-out sort of place, but they'd heard about our crisis and made several of each main course on their menu for dad and my uncle to take back, as we couldn't get everyone to the restaurant. The owner gave them some beers and chatted with them while they waited. Happy campers.
I wore a pretty dress! My sister's was much prettier, but it was really fun to smarten up for a few hours after being damp and cold all day. The food was amazing and the mother of the groom made a beautiful toast--to the bride and groom, to our efforts, and even to Ida for bringing out the best in all of us. Then we all got good and drunk.
Throughout the evening phone photos filtered in of the other wedding guests having drinks and toasting the bride and groom from wherever they were--many of whom who had managed to bump into our other stranded friends and relatives and start getting to know one another.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
I'm still confused and jet lagged. I spent some time today stringing lights and lanterns outside while the wind attempted to upend the swimming pool on me. Then Ben and I put on neoprene sandals and shorts and walked around in the drive and road outside the house to see if we couldn't chart a course through the water that was less than a foot deep all the way along. We managed 14" if you hugged one side, then cut quickly to the other, and returned with this information to the drivers of SUVs. They were in the process of orchestrating a fleet of small boats to bring wedding guests from Manteo Island to the house for the ceremony. After several hours of discussion they managed to secure 3 boats with sufficient seats for 57 people and got all of the guests from 4 hotels and several rental properties to the dock and in the water. After that we fussed and futzed and got my sister all decorated--her hair was amazing!--until the first guests (and last bridesmaids and the minister and the caterers) began to arrive from the pier by uncle-powered shuttle. The groom's sister's car flooded and began misbehaving during this time, which left the best man stranded with it near the ferry terminal. An emergency uncle was called upon to collect him and throw him in a shower and a suit as quickly as possible.
We rehearsed the ceremony at 6pm and decided to hold the real thing at 8. After a few missteps when the non-theatre folk were confused by references to stage right and cue standbys, we managed a simple, no-frills procession. My sister and her then-fiance decided to walk down the aisle together after the moms and dads.
The ceremony was beautiful and brief. The musician played and sang some very pretty songs for the processional and seating. We all had some good laughs--particularly when the minister announced "We made it!" The bridal party all carried candles. The best man carried the vows, and I was hands-free to receive the bouquet of lavender. My teenage cousin and the groom's half-brother were on hand with rings--my new brother also wore an engagement ring--and in the time it took us to say "we recognize and bless your union" they were hitched.
Then dinner and drinks and a variety of toasts. The best man's was genuine--a well-prepared speech on the meaning of love that became more true and more relevant as the week went on. Then mine: "May the wind be always at your backs, but may it not blow a gale!" And thoughtful and grateful words from my father and the groom. The cupcakes--made onsite by a team of friends and cousins--were amazing. Salted caramel recessed in chocolate. Pumpkin and cinnamon. Sweet Revenge's Pure recipe. Chocolate raspberry. And the centerpiece--a really, really big cupcake--red velvet with cream cheese frosting. OMG. I kinda passed out shortly after all this. As I slept the uncle-shuttle zoomed back into action and got the guests back onto boats and back toward their cars before the break of day.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
We woke up this morning to find that the water has begun to recede and the wind has abated. Sushi house--with its glass block castle door and pagoda-style rear tower--lost its moat overnight. We found bits of dad's kite, which had been flying unmanned for three days off the upper deck of the house, in the road and up a tree. Dad climbed after it and scraped his leg.
The road was still closed--well, gone--and the first ferry didn't go out until after it was too late to make our flight. (The 2 ferries--one to Ocracoke, the other from there to Swan Quarter on the mainland, add at least 4 hours to the trip.) I called the airline and got redirected to Montréal where an AirFrance representative flatly failed to rebook my ticket, resulting in headaches and arguments later in the day.
As calls filtered in of missed and canceled flights from friends and family we pulled chairs out of the pool house and stacked and prepared rented dishes for pickup. We started coming across all the neat things we were going to use and do for the ceremony and reception--all the cute bar tables and stools that were going to go out around the pool. All the bamboo poles that were strung with fairy lights to go outside. All the beautiful driftwood that dad had carefully selected and mom had dried and decorated for centerpieces. All the green beans that went uneaten because a quarter of the guests couldn't make it onto the island. All the dancing we were going to do. All the playlists that had been compiled to create different soundscapes for each floor of the house. All the plans. All the arrangements. All the lightbulbs. All the beer. People were worried about waking up early so it was unintentionally one of the driest weddings I'd ever encountered. Dozens of wine bottles were packed into cars and 6 kegs of local beer are being returned to the brewery untapped. All the well-thought through plan A's, plan B's, plan R's...but when it came down to it, plan play-it-by-ear went pretty well too. And the end result is the same. They're married.
Monday-Tuesday, 16-17 November, 2009
Transit day. Woke up at 4am for 5:00 ferry. Missed 5:00 because of insufficient room as the city has demanded that the fleet of stinky garbage trucks which have been stranded here since Wednesday take priority on the outbound runs. Got the 6:00 in a convoy with dad, the short-notice bridesmaid, and the backup minister. Watched the sun rise while the iconic lighthouse did its last pass of the morning. Blink. Whoosh. Got to Ocracoke at 6:45. Missed the 7:00 ferry as it too was full. Got coffee and the 8:00 to the mainland. Phone died--the power cable didn't work with the adapter at the house so the calls to airlines and car rental agencies drained the battery. Lost track of dad and rest of convoy. Got lost because North Carolina doesn't seem to have laws preventing two roads of the same name from intersecting. Got to airport with a few hours to spare. Returned rental car only to discover that the natural disaster note that had been put on the account had been ignored. Charged late fee and for extra day. Rental desk less than useless. Checked in successfully for flight 1 of 2. Told to check in for flight 2 in Atlanta because it's technically a bulk Air France ticket and we can't process it here, but they'll take care of it there no problem. Smooth flight south. Try to check in for flight 2 to Heathrow. Wind up spending an hour waiting while bitchy service desk person tries and fails to transfer ticket, which was issued, in spite of everything, for the previous day's flight. She tries to blame it on us, but we flatly point out to her that it was botched by a representative of her company, and as she works for them too, it's her job to fix it. She mumbled about it being Air France's fault, but as Delta is in bed with them, and the flight is operated by Delta, she can kiss my lilywhite ass. She winds up printing us boarding passes--which had been reserved, but not tickets--and stapling them to the previous day's tickets. We board, we sleep fitfully. We get through customs and are astonished to find that our luggage came home too. Thank you, Atlanta Baggage Handlers--that was amazing.
----
We told joy and horror stories when the rest of the family got in. Their terror when it came to the driving conditions was mitigated by the fact that we were telling it, in one piece, in the kitchen. Their oohs and aahs at the suitcase-rumpled formal clothing, the reassembled party lanterns, and pretty mom-made silk stoles sounded slightly sad that they'd missed it, though slightly relieved too. We did some laundry. We fell aslee
Currently stateside. North Carolina. Cape Hatteras. The lighthouse's historic beam swings through our northern window every seven seconds throughout the night. Blink. Whoosh. Blink. I'm sipping a cold Fat Tire and tuning in and out of my extended family's conversations in the rental palace's olympic-sized kitchen. Blink. Whoosh. Blink. The sun has set and the 5-story tennis court on stilts is emitting a warm, cozy glow. The mother of the bride is panicking in a good-natured way. Blink. Whoosh. ... ...
Well, it does when the island has power.
It tends to lose this luxury when it's swept with gale-force winds for two days straight, accompanied by driving rain that pelts your windscreen with hailstone-like force. As burial of electric mains in flood-prone sand would result in little other than an established regimen of time-wasting for digging crews, the pole-strung power lines get a little wiggly and unreliable during hurricane season.
It would appear that we chose an inopportune moment to brave the barren, dune-covered emptiness of Highway 12, the sole route through the Outer Banks, as Hurricane Ida had decided to vent the last of her remaining fury somewhere between Kitty Hawk and Ocracoke. Pea Island, an untouched nature preserve, was a particularly hairy area to motor through at a crawl--I'm not sure if the head-on sideways rain, the headlight-deep puddles, the utter lack of visibility, the waves crashing over the dunes and onto the car, or the giant heaps of relocated sand dunes were the scariest bit. The roads and bridges were studded with the remains of shorebirds flung into traffic and trees by the relentless wind. For a while I thought it was snowing, but upon closer inspection--while fording a particularly deep road-river--I realized it was very fine, very rapidly moving white sand. Those lovely white-sand beaches. My shaking white-knuckled hands.
Friday, 13 November 2009
We really should have taken today's significant date into consideration when making plans for such an emotionally, spiritually charged event as a wedding. Today the bridge is closed and the rest of the road is periodically filled with crushing waves. The dunes, plasmodic and mobile while I was driving in two nights ago, completely broke, and the ocean is now hogging all lanes of traffic. The only route into and out of Cape Hatteras is under two feet of water, and the road surface itself is destroyed. The Chesapeake Bridge/Tunnel is closed, and all ferry service to the outer banks has been suspended until the storm surge subsides. We've been asked to sit tight, and that's precisely all we can do. My sister is remarkably calm.
Road crews can't get out to the missing areas to begin rebuilding--apparently work vehicles have been washed away and sunk into the sand. The wind is a sustained 50mph gust, coming from the west. All docks are underwater. The second guest house, Sushi, is standing in about 6" of seawater. The front yard has choppy waves.
Family and friends are doing amazing things in spite of or perhaps because of this. The food has been amazing and has come in copious quantities. Everyone is so helpful and selfless. The wedding has been officially moved to the pool house--the upstairs of which is a large, empty hall. We filled it with chairs--originally intended to go around tables outside just for the reception, as the wedding was supposed to be all-standing on the lawn. Instead it has an aisle--something my sister never really wanted to do--and we will have a processional. The bride and groom's friends couldn't have been better suited to make these changes--all the electricians, lighting designers, stage managers, and carpenters pulled out their skills and artistic eyes and made the space beautiful. The seating chart was re-drawn in VectorWorks to fit the dimensions of the hall.
We got our nails done--I have a French manicure. It's lovely.
50 guests, caterers, the musician, the photographer, the hairdresser, and the officiant are stranded on another island. There's no way in hell they're going to get here. Another guest, purely out of a sense of necessity, went and got himself ordained online this morning and can perform the ceremony if it comes to it. The guests are mostly family. We're seeing if we can set up video Skype and have that in a separate party location. The bride is holding it together, but tensions are high. The mother of the bride is starting to crack. The father of the bride is trying to pull a kite off the roof with a fishing pole. It's the most appropriate thing to do, really. My date for the wedding is dismantling my banjo to fit it in the suitcase.
The wedding rehearsal has been postponed until we have a better idea of which ceremony participants will be able to get here. The food for the rehearsal dinner is stuck with the caterers. The fresh fish was going to spoil even in the fridges that the hotel was kind enough to share, so they gave the ingredients to whichever hotel staff could use it. The North Carolina Department of Transportation is on a first-name basis with many of the bridal party and guests. All of the locals know about the wedding and have been hugely accommodating. Dad has the only truck with a high enough chassis to make it down the driveway--the water is 2' deep in places--so when we realized that there was no dinner he went to pick it up from a nice restaurant a few miles away. They're not really a take-out sort of place, but they'd heard about our crisis and made several of each main course on their menu for dad and my uncle to take back, as we couldn't get everyone to the restaurant. The owner gave them some beers and chatted with them while they waited. Happy campers.
I wore a pretty dress! My sister's was much prettier, but it was really fun to smarten up for a few hours after being damp and cold all day. The food was amazing and the mother of the groom made a beautiful toast--to the bride and groom, to our efforts, and even to Ida for bringing out the best in all of us. Then we all got good and drunk.
Throughout the evening phone photos filtered in of the other wedding guests having drinks and toasting the bride and groom from wherever they were--many of whom who had managed to bump into our other stranded friends and relatives and start getting to know one another.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
I'm still confused and jet lagged. I spent some time today stringing lights and lanterns outside while the wind attempted to upend the swimming pool on me. Then Ben and I put on neoprene sandals and shorts and walked around in the drive and road outside the house to see if we couldn't chart a course through the water that was less than a foot deep all the way along. We managed 14" if you hugged one side, then cut quickly to the other, and returned with this information to the drivers of SUVs. They were in the process of orchestrating a fleet of small boats to bring wedding guests from Manteo Island to the house for the ceremony. After several hours of discussion they managed to secure 3 boats with sufficient seats for 57 people and got all of the guests from 4 hotels and several rental properties to the dock and in the water. After that we fussed and futzed and got my sister all decorated--her hair was amazing!--until the first guests (and last bridesmaids and the minister and the caterers) began to arrive from the pier by uncle-powered shuttle. The groom's sister's car flooded and began misbehaving during this time, which left the best man stranded with it near the ferry terminal. An emergency uncle was called upon to collect him and throw him in a shower and a suit as quickly as possible.
We rehearsed the ceremony at 6pm and decided to hold the real thing at 8. After a few missteps when the non-theatre folk were confused by references to stage right and cue standbys, we managed a simple, no-frills procession. My sister and her then-fiance decided to walk down the aisle together after the moms and dads.
The ceremony was beautiful and brief. The musician played and sang some very pretty songs for the processional and seating. We all had some good laughs--particularly when the minister announced "We made it!" The bridal party all carried candles. The best man carried the vows, and I was hands-free to receive the bouquet of lavender. My teenage cousin and the groom's half-brother were on hand with rings--my new brother also wore an engagement ring--and in the time it took us to say "we recognize and bless your union" they were hitched.
Then dinner and drinks and a variety of toasts. The best man's was genuine--a well-prepared speech on the meaning of love that became more true and more relevant as the week went on. Then mine: "May the wind be always at your backs, but may it not blow a gale!" And thoughtful and grateful words from my father and the groom. The cupcakes--made onsite by a team of friends and cousins--were amazing. Salted caramel recessed in chocolate. Pumpkin and cinnamon. Sweet Revenge's Pure recipe. Chocolate raspberry. And the centerpiece--a really, really big cupcake--red velvet with cream cheese frosting. OMG. I kinda passed out shortly after all this. As I slept the uncle-shuttle zoomed back into action and got the guests back onto boats and back toward their cars before the break of day.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
We woke up this morning to find that the water has begun to recede and the wind has abated. Sushi house--with its glass block castle door and pagoda-style rear tower--lost its moat overnight. We found bits of dad's kite, which had been flying unmanned for three days off the upper deck of the house, in the road and up a tree. Dad climbed after it and scraped his leg.
The road was still closed--well, gone--and the first ferry didn't go out until after it was too late to make our flight. (The 2 ferries--one to Ocracoke, the other from there to Swan Quarter on the mainland, add at least 4 hours to the trip.) I called the airline and got redirected to Montréal where an AirFrance representative flatly failed to rebook my ticket, resulting in headaches and arguments later in the day.
As calls filtered in of missed and canceled flights from friends and family we pulled chairs out of the pool house and stacked and prepared rented dishes for pickup. We started coming across all the neat things we were going to use and do for the ceremony and reception--all the cute bar tables and stools that were going to go out around the pool. All the bamboo poles that were strung with fairy lights to go outside. All the beautiful driftwood that dad had carefully selected and mom had dried and decorated for centerpieces. All the green beans that went uneaten because a quarter of the guests couldn't make it onto the island. All the dancing we were going to do. All the playlists that had been compiled to create different soundscapes for each floor of the house. All the plans. All the arrangements. All the lightbulbs. All the beer. People were worried about waking up early so it was unintentionally one of the driest weddings I'd ever encountered. Dozens of wine bottles were packed into cars and 6 kegs of local beer are being returned to the brewery untapped. All the well-thought through plan A's, plan B's, plan R's...but when it came down to it, plan play-it-by-ear went pretty well too. And the end result is the same. They're married.
Monday-Tuesday, 16-17 November, 2009
Transit day. Woke up at 4am for 5:00 ferry. Missed 5:00 because of insufficient room as the city has demanded that the fleet of stinky garbage trucks which have been stranded here since Wednesday take priority on the outbound runs. Got the 6:00 in a convoy with dad, the short-notice bridesmaid, and the backup minister. Watched the sun rise while the iconic lighthouse did its last pass of the morning. Blink. Whoosh. Got to Ocracoke at 6:45. Missed the 7:00 ferry as it too was full. Got coffee and the 8:00 to the mainland. Phone died--the power cable didn't work with the adapter at the house so the calls to airlines and car rental agencies drained the battery. Lost track of dad and rest of convoy. Got lost because North Carolina doesn't seem to have laws preventing two roads of the same name from intersecting. Got to airport with a few hours to spare. Returned rental car only to discover that the natural disaster note that had been put on the account had been ignored. Charged late fee and for extra day. Rental desk less than useless. Checked in successfully for flight 1 of 2. Told to check in for flight 2 in Atlanta because it's technically a bulk Air France ticket and we can't process it here, but they'll take care of it there no problem. Smooth flight south. Try to check in for flight 2 to Heathrow. Wind up spending an hour waiting while bitchy service desk person tries and fails to transfer ticket, which was issued, in spite of everything, for the previous day's flight. She tries to blame it on us, but we flatly point out to her that it was botched by a representative of her company, and as she works for them too, it's her job to fix it. She mumbled about it being Air France's fault, but as Delta is in bed with them, and the flight is operated by Delta, she can kiss my lilywhite ass. She winds up printing us boarding passes--which had been reserved, but not tickets--and stapling them to the previous day's tickets. We board, we sleep fitfully. We get through customs and are astonished to find that our luggage came home too. Thank you, Atlanta Baggage Handlers--that was amazing.
----
We told joy and horror stories when the rest of the family got in. Their terror when it came to the driving conditions was mitigated by the fact that we were telling it, in one piece, in the kitchen. Their oohs and aahs at the suitcase-rumpled formal clothing, the reassembled party lanterns, and pretty mom-made silk stoles sounded slightly sad that they'd missed it, though slightly relieved too. We did some laundry. We fell aslee
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Outside World
As maid of honor for my sister's wedding, I'm expected to get up at least once and say a few words of congratulations for the new couple and raise a glass. The only thing I've been able to come up with toward this end has involved the words, "as demonstrated by post-modernist researchers," and the paragraph, "It has been argued by contemporary practitioners that any attempt to explain or describe art through any medium other than the art itself compromises the pure effect of the artwork--even carefully researched analysis contributes to preconceptions that redirect or impair direct communication of the art with the observer. Much to this effect holds true for love--pure love cannot be explained, charted, or adequately described, and indeed, any attempt to describe the fullness of love to anyone not feeling that love itself falls so short of the mark as to make a mockery of it--and with it, oneself."
Unfortunately I've been back in acadæmia long enough that I can't quite remember how to make an unquantified or at the very least un-cited statement. If anyone has any ideas for how to format or phrase a light, joyful, seemingly-off-the-cuff speech or toast for a big family gathering, i'd love to hear suggestions.
Gracias.
Unfortunately I've been back in acadæmia long enough that I can't quite remember how to make an unquantified or at the very least un-cited statement. If anyone has any ideas for how to format or phrase a light, joyful, seemingly-off-the-cuff speech or toast for a big family gathering, i'd love to hear suggestions.
Gracias.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)