Let's imagine a situation.
You're out on the street, here in Calgary, in winter. And you're naked. It's cold. Really cold. And a man walks by and offers you a really really nice parka. Waterproof, windproof, fur-lined, even. It's the nicest warmest thing you've ever seen.
But you can only wear it for 20 hours.
Do you take it?
After all, it's 20 hours that you didn't have before where you feel warm, and cared for, and safe. How can you say no? Isn't that just pride?
But when the 20 hours is up, how much harder is it to give the coat back? Surely, in an ideal Taoist world, you would be simply happy to have had those 20 hours at all, and wholly grateful to the man who gave them to you.
But how much crueler is the bite of the wind when you're back out there naked again... How can you not, at least for a moment, feel a stab of bitterness, longing for that warmth again? It's wrong, of course, because you still have more than you had before. And it's ungenerous to want more from a gift than is offered.
But it's cold out there, friends. And if I am sad, it will pass. I am grateful. I'm just getting used to the cold.
- Falcon
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Cruelest Test Ever
So I do one of these internet quizzes, something about discovering what kind of person you're attracted to and why. And of course it all starts in your childhood.
And they ask all these leading questions, like, how close were you to your extended family (not at all), how affectionate were your parents (not much), did they spend a lot of time with you growing up (not at all), how involved were they in major decisions in your life (not at all)... and just as I'm realizing how big a vacuum it really was I grew up in, they hit you with the relationship questions, so by the end of all that I'm in tears waiting to find out what they'll tell me about my life and... the last page is missing. Yup. The one where they calculate your score and give you the results. I guess I'll never know what the deep motivating impulses of my life are.
Well, as if I can't figure that out on my own. Just having someone ask the questions makes it all pretty depressingly obvious. But unfortunately, even if you know that the reason why you pick unsuitable partners is because you don't really believe you deserve to be loved in the first place, how does that help one overcome such feelings? It doesn't, really.
In Merchant of Venice, Antonio says, "In truth, I know not why I am so sad." In truth, I do know. But it doesn't make it any better, Antonio. Truly, it doesn't.
- Falcon
And they ask all these leading questions, like, how close were you to your extended family (not at all), how affectionate were your parents (not much), did they spend a lot of time with you growing up (not at all), how involved were they in major decisions in your life (not at all)... and just as I'm realizing how big a vacuum it really was I grew up in, they hit you with the relationship questions, so by the end of all that I'm in tears waiting to find out what they'll tell me about my life and... the last page is missing. Yup. The one where they calculate your score and give you the results. I guess I'll never know what the deep motivating impulses of my life are.
Well, as if I can't figure that out on my own. Just having someone ask the questions makes it all pretty depressingly obvious. But unfortunately, even if you know that the reason why you pick unsuitable partners is because you don't really believe you deserve to be loved in the first place, how does that help one overcome such feelings? It doesn't, really.
In Merchant of Venice, Antonio says, "In truth, I know not why I am so sad." In truth, I do know. But it doesn't make it any better, Antonio. Truly, it doesn't.
- Falcon
Friday, March 25, 2005
EFFable
EFFable.
Meaning "easily explained," and also, "fuckable."
A play on gods, devils, and sex.
I can't believe it's already the end of March. What happened? Where have I been?
March has been an incredibly revolutionary month. Like all of last summer, it's been full of highs and lows.
I did my show EFFable at Random Acts. It was meant to be a one-off exercise. One night only! Never to be Repeated! Instead it has all spiralled wildly out of control, in the best possible way. I may now spend up to a year or more working on just this piece alone, performing it at the Solocentric festival in May, and perhaps a broader life beyond that...
Several things happened that I had not expected:
1. I made my writing partner mad at me (mostly because I let him know at the last minute that he was my writing partner...but honestly, I didn't know much earlier than he did.) At any rate, now that the show is developing a further life, I now have a Writing Partner: a Collaborator, which I have never had before.
2. The show was part of an ongoing Scandale that is Random Acts. Artists are invited to submit, and told that there will be a $2500 Emerging Artist prize for one artist and one artist only. After the fact, most of the artists are informed that they were never eligible to win the $2500 in the first place, because they were already considered to have "emerged."
The definition of "Emerging Artist" is hotly debated every year. It was decided this year that it applied to anyone who had ever worked in a professional capacity. A friend of mine had been up for the prize but was disqualified as being "too professional" despite the fact that he was not a member of the Actors' Association - Equity - and had never written a play before. There was the misconception that because he had been hired as a professional actor in the past - years ago - that he must be a member of Equity. He has never made his living professionally entirely as an actor nor a writer.
Another friend was also considered for the prize, rightly so, as she was clearly the audience favourite and had worked her ass off on this project, something very close to her heart. But she was similarly disqualified, despite the fact that a $2500 award would have meant allowing her the time to finish this very marketable and timely, brilliant work of art, and would have prevented her from having to take a full time job at the phone company just to make ends meet. She also has a family that demand part of her attention, and commitments like regular people.
For anyone who is not an artist, a full time job at a phone company really does preclude one from having the time to write properly. There is somehow a misconception that brilliant art is something one can accomplish anytime, between making rounds of toast, while on the toilet, or in five minutes before bedtime. It just isn't so. No one would ask a brain surgeon or a lawyer to do his little brain surgery/legal hobby after working 40 hours a week at a mind-numbing job at the phone company and expect them to do their best.
At any rate, on the jury, passions run high, and judges are frustrated and suffering in their decisions. One jury member had gone out of his way to fight for my piece, which I could have told him was a fruitless exercise. Last year, despite never having written and performed a solo show before, I was already considered to have "emerged" and so I had no hope of unemerging this year. Nontheless, I now have a "mentor," which I have never had before.
3. A man in the audience, a Buddhist Actuary as it turns out, is sitting at a table during my show. His companion knocks over a beer bottle giving me an opportunity to rib the audience a bit. The next day I receive a phone call from a friend of mine who had been working the event. Buddhist Actuary had approached her, raving about how much he loved my show, and did she know me, and etc. etc. The next day there is a message for me at the box office: "I didn't spill the beer. I loved your show, and thought you were cute," with a name and number attached. This has also never happened to me before. If ever I thought someone would fall in love with me during a show, I never would have thought it would be for playing myself. Part of the joy of being an actor is being spared the agony of being yourself for a few hours. Or at least being a better, much improved version of yourself that is confident and knows exactly what to say and exactly what they want. At any rate, this is a new unexpected experience for me too.
4. Ah, and one more development comes out of the whole play experience, that is truly ineffable, and so I will not attempt to put it into words here. Some things will remain secret, even here where I divulge all secrets. (but if you come closer, I may whisper it in your ear) At any rate, it is also something that has never happened to me before. Actually, it involves several things that have never happened to me before. Entirely eventful. Mind-waking, eye-opening, profound.
The pattern of my life emerges, and as ineffable as it is, it is nonetheless...visible, in a sense.
I may finally be able to move.
More about Calgary and our impending amicable separation later.
- Falcon
ps I did a test where you find out what kind of dog you are. I am in fact not a Maltese, it turns out, but a Dalmation. Which is much to my relief. I don't much care for Malteses, although Maltezers have always been a favourite.
Meaning "easily explained," and also, "fuckable."
A play on gods, devils, and sex.
I can't believe it's already the end of March. What happened? Where have I been?
March has been an incredibly revolutionary month. Like all of last summer, it's been full of highs and lows.
I did my show EFFable at Random Acts. It was meant to be a one-off exercise. One night only! Never to be Repeated! Instead it has all spiralled wildly out of control, in the best possible way. I may now spend up to a year or more working on just this piece alone, performing it at the Solocentric festival in May, and perhaps a broader life beyond that...
Several things happened that I had not expected:
1. I made my writing partner mad at me (mostly because I let him know at the last minute that he was my writing partner...but honestly, I didn't know much earlier than he did.) At any rate, now that the show is developing a further life, I now have a Writing Partner: a Collaborator, which I have never had before.
2. The show was part of an ongoing Scandale that is Random Acts. Artists are invited to submit, and told that there will be a $2500 Emerging Artist prize for one artist and one artist only. After the fact, most of the artists are informed that they were never eligible to win the $2500 in the first place, because they were already considered to have "emerged."
The definition of "Emerging Artist" is hotly debated every year. It was decided this year that it applied to anyone who had ever worked in a professional capacity. A friend of mine had been up for the prize but was disqualified as being "too professional" despite the fact that he was not a member of the Actors' Association - Equity - and had never written a play before. There was the misconception that because he had been hired as a professional actor in the past - years ago - that he must be a member of Equity. He has never made his living professionally entirely as an actor nor a writer.
Another friend was also considered for the prize, rightly so, as she was clearly the audience favourite and had worked her ass off on this project, something very close to her heart. But she was similarly disqualified, despite the fact that a $2500 award would have meant allowing her the time to finish this very marketable and timely, brilliant work of art, and would have prevented her from having to take a full time job at the phone company just to make ends meet. She also has a family that demand part of her attention, and commitments like regular people.
For anyone who is not an artist, a full time job at a phone company really does preclude one from having the time to write properly. There is somehow a misconception that brilliant art is something one can accomplish anytime, between making rounds of toast, while on the toilet, or in five minutes before bedtime. It just isn't so. No one would ask a brain surgeon or a lawyer to do his little brain surgery/legal hobby after working 40 hours a week at a mind-numbing job at the phone company and expect them to do their best.
At any rate, on the jury, passions run high, and judges are frustrated and suffering in their decisions. One jury member had gone out of his way to fight for my piece, which I could have told him was a fruitless exercise. Last year, despite never having written and performed a solo show before, I was already considered to have "emerged" and so I had no hope of unemerging this year. Nontheless, I now have a "mentor," which I have never had before.
3. A man in the audience, a Buddhist Actuary as it turns out, is sitting at a table during my show. His companion knocks over a beer bottle giving me an opportunity to rib the audience a bit. The next day I receive a phone call from a friend of mine who had been working the event. Buddhist Actuary had approached her, raving about how much he loved my show, and did she know me, and etc. etc. The next day there is a message for me at the box office: "I didn't spill the beer. I loved your show, and thought you were cute," with a name and number attached. This has also never happened to me before. If ever I thought someone would fall in love with me during a show, I never would have thought it would be for playing myself. Part of the joy of being an actor is being spared the agony of being yourself for a few hours. Or at least being a better, much improved version of yourself that is confident and knows exactly what to say and exactly what they want. At any rate, this is a new unexpected experience for me too.
4. Ah, and one more development comes out of the whole play experience, that is truly ineffable, and so I will not attempt to put it into words here. Some things will remain secret, even here where I divulge all secrets. (but if you come closer, I may whisper it in your ear) At any rate, it is also something that has never happened to me before. Actually, it involves several things that have never happened to me before. Entirely eventful. Mind-waking, eye-opening, profound.
The pattern of my life emerges, and as ineffable as it is, it is nonetheless...visible, in a sense.
I may finally be able to move.
More about Calgary and our impending amicable separation later.
- Falcon
ps I did a test where you find out what kind of dog you are. I am in fact not a Maltese, it turns out, but a Dalmation. Which is much to my relief. I don't much care for Malteses, although Maltezers have always been a favourite.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Sense Memory #2: Everybody Wants to be a Cat
A Startling Revelation:
It all comes rushing in on me Suddenly I see where it all comes from - the love of jazz, passion, slumming in the bohemian lifestyle of a delapidated garret in 19th century Paris, the love of adventure and romance and bad boys, tragic love stories, and the fear of loneliness and abandonment... It all comes from watching the Aristocats. Yup. In two seconds of turning on the tv and seeing Duchess and that Tomcat jazzing it up in that rooftop gin-joint, I am suddenly a kid again, listening to that soundtrack over and over again on my little 45 player.
Sigh.
It all comes rushing in on me Suddenly I see where it all comes from - the love of jazz, passion, slumming in the bohemian lifestyle of a delapidated garret in 19th century Paris, the love of adventure and romance and bad boys, tragic love stories, and the fear of loneliness and abandonment... It all comes from watching the Aristocats. Yup. In two seconds of turning on the tv and seeing Duchess and that Tomcat jazzing it up in that rooftop gin-joint, I am suddenly a kid again, listening to that soundtrack over and over again on my little 45 player.
Sigh.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Sense Memory #1: Interstate Love Song
This song feels like speeding down the freeway on a baking hot day with the top down, wind streaming through my hair.
This didn't happen. This is what did:
A freezing cold motel room in Meaford, Ontario. It's February, and the icy air slices the dark room. The little Russian man who runs the place brings up the space heater while we're at the Opera House preparing for the gig.
When the show is mercifully over, I crawl back to the room while the others go out to the bar. "Are you sure? I don't feel right about leaving you alone here." Please, I tell them GO. What I don't say is that I'll like them much better if they just leave me alone for a few hours.
I am sick with a blinding migraine, and sick to death of my companions. There are five of us sleeping in this room tonight. All too soon, the others come falling through the door, bringing the daggar cold in with them. The crew is here too. I guess the gang wants to party in this room tonight. Someone discovers my very expensive bottle of scotch on the dresser. The one that I bought to make me want to live, just a little, or at least to knock me out and pretend I'm dead. "Hey, check it out! Booze!" They start slugging it back like the shitty 151 they usually drink.
I am under the covers, but I am also floating outside the room, somewhere far far away, somewhere locked inside the blood vessel in my temple that is as clamped and tight as my nerves, where the pain pulses like a star in another galaxy.
Time has slowed down. It's like the reverse of the shriner clown car: people start pouring INTO the room at an impossible rate. Within 15 seconds, little Tyler has thrown himself onto my bed and whipped out his guitar and is singing, at the top of his lungs: Interstate Love Song.
This didn't happen. This is what did:
A freezing cold motel room in Meaford, Ontario. It's February, and the icy air slices the dark room. The little Russian man who runs the place brings up the space heater while we're at the Opera House preparing for the gig.
When the show is mercifully over, I crawl back to the room while the others go out to the bar. "Are you sure? I don't feel right about leaving you alone here." Please, I tell them GO. What I don't say is that I'll like them much better if they just leave me alone for a few hours.
I am sick with a blinding migraine, and sick to death of my companions. There are five of us sleeping in this room tonight. All too soon, the others come falling through the door, bringing the daggar cold in with them. The crew is here too. I guess the gang wants to party in this room tonight. Someone discovers my very expensive bottle of scotch on the dresser. The one that I bought to make me want to live, just a little, or at least to knock me out and pretend I'm dead. "Hey, check it out! Booze!" They start slugging it back like the shitty 151 they usually drink.
I am under the covers, but I am also floating outside the room, somewhere far far away, somewhere locked inside the blood vessel in my temple that is as clamped and tight as my nerves, where the pain pulses like a star in another galaxy.
Time has slowed down. It's like the reverse of the shriner clown car: people start pouring INTO the room at an impossible rate. Within 15 seconds, little Tyler has thrown himself onto my bed and whipped out his guitar and is singing, at the top of his lungs: Interstate Love Song.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Heart of Light
Ahhh... I can try to be bitter, but it ultimately doesn't sit well with me. Something always gives way and I feel light again.
Nonetheless, Calgary feels lonely to me today. Restlessness sets in and I think about moving again. Not that you can escape loneliness by changing cities. You bring it with you, no matter what else you leave behind. But at least in a new city, without friends, one can justify feeling lonely. At least it makes sense.
- Falcon
Nonetheless, Calgary feels lonely to me today. Restlessness sets in and I think about moving again. Not that you can escape loneliness by changing cities. You bring it with you, no matter what else you leave behind. But at least in a new city, without friends, one can justify feeling lonely. At least it makes sense.
- Falcon
Monday, February 07, 2005
Seditious Sedation
I was listening absently to the radio when an ad came on extolling the virtues of Sedation Dentistry. I actually considered it dreamily for a moment. Not that I need any dental work done, but the idea of spending a few hours reclining in a big comfy chair under sedation was intensely appealing. Ah... sweet sweet sedation...
- Falcon
- Falcon
Sunday, January 30, 2005
The Hidden Cameras
If you want to see one of the best live party pop-punk-queer-hippie-freak-bands to come out of that slag-heap hell-hole of human misery, Mississauga, GO SEE THE HIDDEN CAMERAS - upcoming tour schedule attached!. Like the Flaming Lips? Frank Zappa? Beck? Scissor Sisters? Kazoos? Slide whistles? The cello? Violins and church organs? Hard rocking guitar riffs? Live animation? You will love these guys.
Last night they played a packed house (tickets sold out weeks ago) at the High Performance Rodeo. A bunch of us only got in because we agreed to form a choir and sing background on all the songs and throw streamers. PS If you have a chance to do this, DO. There's no better way to see a band than to be IN the band...
Check out www.thehiddencameras.com for more.
Stay hip, stay dry,
- Falcon
Upcoming Shows - 2005
Jan 30
Edmonton, AB
The Power Plant, U of Alberta
Feb 2
Victoria, BC
Central Bar & Grill, w/ The Blow
Feb 3
Vancouver, BC
Richards on Richards, w/ The Blow
Feb 4
Seattle, WA
Chop Suey, w/ The Blow
Feb 5
Portland, OR
Holocene, w/ The Blow, Crime in Choir
Feb 7
Oakland, CA
LoBot
Feb 8
San Francisco, CA
Bottom of the Hill, w/ hey willpower
Feb 11
Los Angeles, CA
Echo, w/ hey willpower
Feb 12
San Diego, CA
Casbah
Feb 17
Chicago, IL
Subterranean, w/ The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir
Last night they played a packed house (tickets sold out weeks ago) at the High Performance Rodeo. A bunch of us only got in because we agreed to form a choir and sing background on all the songs and throw streamers. PS If you have a chance to do this, DO. There's no better way to see a band than to be IN the band...
Check out www.thehiddencameras.com for more.
Stay hip, stay dry,
- Falcon
Upcoming Shows - 2005
Jan 30
Edmonton, AB
The Power Plant, U of Alberta
Feb 2
Victoria, BC
Central Bar & Grill, w/ The Blow
Feb 3
Vancouver, BC
Richards on Richards, w/ The Blow
Feb 4
Seattle, WA
Chop Suey, w/ The Blow
Feb 5
Portland, OR
Holocene, w/ The Blow, Crime in Choir
Feb 7
Oakland, CA
LoBot
Feb 8
San Francisco, CA
Bottom of the Hill, w/ hey willpower
Feb 11
Los Angeles, CA
Echo, w/ hey willpower
Feb 12
San Diego, CA
Casbah
Feb 17
Chicago, IL
Subterranean, w/ The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir
Friday, January 28, 2005
International Avenue Part II
A comment from my friend Turtle bears repeating:
"Thank you, thank you, thank you. I wondered if anyone was EVER going to notice the absurdity of the name change. The name change has changed nothing. Forest Lawn will be Forest Lawn as long as track pants are available for purchase (or theft) and the price of dope is less than the price of cigarettes. Did anyone really think that the skids would be so deterred by the pure sophistication of a street named "International Avenue" that they would pick up and move? Where would they move to? There is no place in the city that welcomes a skid with open arms the way Forest Lawn does. Bowness comes close, but there are actually properties that are worth something in Bowness. No that would be too great a culture shock for a "Lawner."
Thank you, Falcon. I feel better knowing I'm not the only one watching meaningless "improvements" being implemented for the betterment of all."
Thank you, Turtle, for your succinct and heartfelt analyses, and for giving a human voice to the "Lawner."
- Falcon
"Thank you, thank you, thank you. I wondered if anyone was EVER going to notice the absurdity of the name change. The name change has changed nothing. Forest Lawn will be Forest Lawn as long as track pants are available for purchase (or theft) and the price of dope is less than the price of cigarettes. Did anyone really think that the skids would be so deterred by the pure sophistication of a street named "International Avenue" that they would pick up and move? Where would they move to? There is no place in the city that welcomes a skid with open arms the way Forest Lawn does. Bowness comes close, but there are actually properties that are worth something in Bowness. No that would be too great a culture shock for a "Lawner."
Thank you, Falcon. I feel better knowing I'm not the only one watching meaningless "improvements" being implemented for the betterment of all."
Thank you, Turtle, for your succinct and heartfelt analyses, and for giving a human voice to the "Lawner."
- Falcon
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
A Comment from the Pot
Well, I suppose I should have held my tongue a few moments longer on the subject of screenwriters. The Universe marked my haughty disdain and I am now in danger of becoming one.
It seems all my days lounging in coffee shops may actually pay off. I wound up at the same table in a Second Cup with a fellow who, by the time we could see the bottom of our dark roasts, was hinting at hiring me as a script consultant for his Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick he's producing. And he really does produce movies. I checked it out.
Don't you think that might be fun? Can you think of anyone more PERFECT to be script consultant on a Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick than me? Don't you think my whole life in its meandering oblique way has been leading to a gig exactly like this? It seems that my whole life is about collecting interesting stories, and subsequently, interesting stories seem to find me, even if I'm hiding behind the newspaper at the Second Cup.
N
It seems all my days lounging in coffee shops may actually pay off. I wound up at the same table in a Second Cup with a fellow who, by the time we could see the bottom of our dark roasts, was hinting at hiring me as a script consultant for his Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick he's producing. And he really does produce movies. I checked it out.
Don't you think that might be fun? Can you think of anyone more PERFECT to be script consultant on a Musical Comedy Bollywood Crossover Flick than me? Don't you think my whole life in its meandering oblique way has been leading to a gig exactly like this? It seems that my whole life is about collecting interesting stories, and subsequently, interesting stories seem to find me, even if I'm hiding behind the newspaper at the Second Cup.
N
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Just a few words on words...
For the desperately curious only, this is what my fridge now says:
1. Loathesome mischance
Vouchsafe my discontent
Sanctify melancholy
2. Then do it and wickedly
So much more is in here
Quench thy vulgar measure
That oft did seek
Grace and idle envy
3. Perilous death
Never deceive me
4. Alas if lover ever hadst this lazy torment
5. Methinks she has a too wanton breast
6. Villain
Who wilt slander love with foul mercy
Ne'er tempt my maiden bosom
Farewell fortune and forswear dream
His lordship hast some drunken ghost...
Is everybody's fridge this depressing?
Or is it just Shakespeare's?
If anyone has any cheerier fridge poetry to share, please feel free to post them as comments here. Please.
PS As a sidenote to Shakespeare: I saw a preview for The Merchant of Venice the other day, and as you all know, my future husband Joe Fiennes plays Bassanio in it. I have to say I don't really dig the long hair on him. They have poor Joe tressed up like a greasy Jennifer Aniston. It's... unbecoming. Oh shear thy lank and limping locks, Joe! Let thy neck be once more naked as the noonday sun!
1. Loathesome mischance
Vouchsafe my discontent
Sanctify melancholy
2. Then do it and wickedly
So much more is in here
Quench thy vulgar measure
That oft did seek
Grace and idle envy
3. Perilous death
Never deceive me
4. Alas if lover ever hadst this lazy torment
5. Methinks she has a too wanton breast
6. Villain
Who wilt slander love with foul mercy
Ne'er tempt my maiden bosom
Farewell fortune and forswear dream
His lordship hast some drunken ghost...
Is everybody's fridge this depressing?
Or is it just Shakespeare's?
If anyone has any cheerier fridge poetry to share, please feel free to post them as comments here. Please.
PS As a sidenote to Shakespeare: I saw a preview for The Merchant of Venice the other day, and as you all know, my future husband Joe Fiennes plays Bassanio in it. I have to say I don't really dig the long hair on him. They have poor Joe tressed up like a greasy Jennifer Aniston. It's... unbecoming. Oh shear thy lank and limping locks, Joe! Let thy neck be once more naked as the noonday sun!
Words, words, words
I am sick of words.
But I can't seem to escape them. I spend my days writing, reading, and writing some more. Even when I am trying to relax, what do I do? Read a book. Or the paper. Do a crossword. Allllll words. Even this morning, I couldn't leave the house for an hour because I was transfixed, standing in the kitchen fully dressed to leave wearing hat, parka, boots, gloves in hand, re-arranging the Shakespearean Magnetic Poetry on my fridge. I couldn't tear myself away until I'd put a certain amount of words in a satisfying order. There's something creepily OCD about it. I couldn't believe an hour had gone. As if that isn't enough, let's say I'm walking somewhere to try to get away from thinking and from words - I wind up having conversations with people - IN MY HEAD. I'm sure there must be some people who think I'm nuts. A character from a show I'm writing will start talking spontaneously and either I'll answer them or I'll speak out loud for them. A little disturbing. And let's say I'm actually someplace with somebody - I'll drift off for patches of time that I'm sure are misunderstood as "comfortable silences." In fact I am having full blown conversations with them - ONLY THEY DON'T KNOW IT. Because they are answering me IN MY HEAD. Sometimes I have difficulty finding the right words to say because I have too many other conversations swimming around my head. I have to pick the words one by one out of noisy push of verbiage surging across my brain like a fisherman spearing mackeral in a rushing stream. I like typing better than writing longhand because typing is the only thing that comes close to the speed of my thoughts. They gush like overflowing bathwater down a staircase. I have to find a way to turn off the taps once in a while.
Even when I'm not reading or writing or listening to the tv or the radio (which are all tightly packed with words) I might be doing something like designing a poster. Fewer words, more pictures, but still a visual way of communicating.
I am beginning to think that I have trouble communicating on the phone or in person because I can't SEE the words. I should tie a cool cloth around my eyes for a couple of days and see if I can turn off the visual communication for a few days. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted from it.
And with that little gush I'll close this vein for the day. Better luck to you all.
- Falcon.
But I can't seem to escape them. I spend my days writing, reading, and writing some more. Even when I am trying to relax, what do I do? Read a book. Or the paper. Do a crossword. Allllll words. Even this morning, I couldn't leave the house for an hour because I was transfixed, standing in the kitchen fully dressed to leave wearing hat, parka, boots, gloves in hand, re-arranging the Shakespearean Magnetic Poetry on my fridge. I couldn't tear myself away until I'd put a certain amount of words in a satisfying order. There's something creepily OCD about it. I couldn't believe an hour had gone. As if that isn't enough, let's say I'm walking somewhere to try to get away from thinking and from words - I wind up having conversations with people - IN MY HEAD. I'm sure there must be some people who think I'm nuts. A character from a show I'm writing will start talking spontaneously and either I'll answer them or I'll speak out loud for them. A little disturbing. And let's say I'm actually someplace with somebody - I'll drift off for patches of time that I'm sure are misunderstood as "comfortable silences." In fact I am having full blown conversations with them - ONLY THEY DON'T KNOW IT. Because they are answering me IN MY HEAD. Sometimes I have difficulty finding the right words to say because I have too many other conversations swimming around my head. I have to pick the words one by one out of noisy push of verbiage surging across my brain like a fisherman spearing mackeral in a rushing stream. I like typing better than writing longhand because typing is the only thing that comes close to the speed of my thoughts. They gush like overflowing bathwater down a staircase. I have to find a way to turn off the taps once in a while.
Even when I'm not reading or writing or listening to the tv or the radio (which are all tightly packed with words) I might be doing something like designing a poster. Fewer words, more pictures, but still a visual way of communicating.
I am beginning to think that I have trouble communicating on the phone or in person because I can't SEE the words. I should tie a cool cloth around my eyes for a couple of days and see if I can turn off the visual communication for a few days. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted from it.
And with that little gush I'll close this vein for the day. Better luck to you all.
- Falcon.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Charming Devils
May I present you with my top ten list of Sexy Devils (in no particular order):
1. Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. We all know that it's the better part. If Lloyd Webber hadn't written "Gethsemane," the Jesus role would be a complete bust.
2. Lord Asriel in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series. Not only is he a passionate, emotionally unavailable character with the haughtiest disposition since Mr. D'Arcy swallowed his Pride and Prejudice, but the book recasts the Original Rebel Angel as the GOOD GUY! That's right. God isn't dead in this book, but he's in a hell of a decaying stupor, and Asriel is there to try to unite all the Universes in a bid to free all souls from the tyranny of Death. How do you not dig that?
3. Lucy - short for Lucifer - in Timothy Findley's Not Wanted on the Voyage. It's hard not to root for this contemplative cross-dressing character. He's sensitive and tender, completely opposite God's cruel messenger Noah.
4. The Devil in ANY Tom Waits album is always a slick character. And he's in all of them. He's always one step ahead, even if he sometimes has to hop on one foot. Speaking of which, anyone who has never seen The Black Rider when it was in their home town should be rounded up and flogged. But more importantly, if a gimpy cloven-hooved guy minced up to your door with a crooked smile and a red rose, you'd fall over yourself letting him in the hizzy to sing a song or two. You know you would.
5. And when the Devil went down to Georgia he played a mean fiddle. Now what's sexier than a pagan Paganini?
6. Sting in Brimstone and Treacle. I know a guy whose dad is a Unitarian minister and makes his family watch this film every Christmas. Now THAT'S the power of sex appeal, my friends.
7. Tim Curry in that weird Tom Cruise Unicorn Movie. Even with terrifyingly massive horns and hind limbs you have to feel sorry for the lonely goat. AND as IF you wouldn't let him dress you up like an extra from Bauhaus' Bela Legosi's Dead video and let him take your virginity. Heck, I was already dressed like that in the 80's anyway, and if that thing had stormed up to the doors of Clarkson Secondary School 100 feet tall and burnin' for my soul, (which is way cooler than riding a pony to school even) I would have left my lunch right there under the stairs in the emergency exit and been glad for the chance to skip town. Hey, I just would have been glad someone WANTED my viriginity. And hey, I was living in Missisauga - how bad could hell be? Frankly I would be moving to a better neighbourhood. I digress...
8. David Bowie as the Goblin King in Labyrinth. TAKE my baby sister, PLEASE! Just let me stay with you in your hot crazy cave hovel and listen to you rock out with those Dark Crystal muppets.
9. The Fallen Angel of Milton's Paradise Lost. He can find Paradise any time he wants by my Dashboard Light. (Hee hee. Paradise Lost by the Dashboard Light - starring Milton in the Meatloaf role...)
10. Robert deNiro and/or Mickey Roarke in that Oedipal murder mystery Angel Heart. Okay, the fingernails are kinda creepy but the devil always wears a goatee, and neatly trimmed facial hair is SEXY, my friends! As for Mickey Roarke's peak performance, it's that greasy I-haven't-slept-in-weeks-and-I'm-covered-in-chicken-blood/DRRTY thang that just makes me want to roll him up and smoke him like a Cuban cigar. Okay that really WAS too much information. But I'm not taking it back.
Bonus: The Phantom of the Opera. Not technically the devil, but an emotionally sensitive murderous sociopath, which is close enough. And he's got a cape and a cool mask. (this should be a whole sub-genre: black cape/mask wearing rebels, which would naturally include Zorro and Darth Vadar. And probably August Strindberg.)
- Falcon
1. Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. We all know that it's the better part. If Lloyd Webber hadn't written "Gethsemane," the Jesus role would be a complete bust.
2. Lord Asriel in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series. Not only is he a passionate, emotionally unavailable character with the haughtiest disposition since Mr. D'Arcy swallowed his Pride and Prejudice, but the book recasts the Original Rebel Angel as the GOOD GUY! That's right. God isn't dead in this book, but he's in a hell of a decaying stupor, and Asriel is there to try to unite all the Universes in a bid to free all souls from the tyranny of Death. How do you not dig that?
3. Lucy - short for Lucifer - in Timothy Findley's Not Wanted on the Voyage. It's hard not to root for this contemplative cross-dressing character. He's sensitive and tender, completely opposite God's cruel messenger Noah.
4. The Devil in ANY Tom Waits album is always a slick character. And he's in all of them. He's always one step ahead, even if he sometimes has to hop on one foot. Speaking of which, anyone who has never seen The Black Rider when it was in their home town should be rounded up and flogged. But more importantly, if a gimpy cloven-hooved guy minced up to your door with a crooked smile and a red rose, you'd fall over yourself letting him in the hizzy to sing a song or two. You know you would.
5. And when the Devil went down to Georgia he played a mean fiddle. Now what's sexier than a pagan Paganini?
6. Sting in Brimstone and Treacle. I know a guy whose dad is a Unitarian minister and makes his family watch this film every Christmas. Now THAT'S the power of sex appeal, my friends.
7. Tim Curry in that weird Tom Cruise Unicorn Movie. Even with terrifyingly massive horns and hind limbs you have to feel sorry for the lonely goat. AND as IF you wouldn't let him dress you up like an extra from Bauhaus' Bela Legosi's Dead video and let him take your virginity. Heck, I was already dressed like that in the 80's anyway, and if that thing had stormed up to the doors of Clarkson Secondary School 100 feet tall and burnin' for my soul, (which is way cooler than riding a pony to school even) I would have left my lunch right there under the stairs in the emergency exit and been glad for the chance to skip town. Hey, I just would have been glad someone WANTED my viriginity. And hey, I was living in Missisauga - how bad could hell be? Frankly I would be moving to a better neighbourhood. I digress...
8. David Bowie as the Goblin King in Labyrinth. TAKE my baby sister, PLEASE! Just let me stay with you in your hot crazy cave hovel and listen to you rock out with those Dark Crystal muppets.
9. The Fallen Angel of Milton's Paradise Lost. He can find Paradise any time he wants by my Dashboard Light. (Hee hee. Paradise Lost by the Dashboard Light - starring Milton in the Meatloaf role...)
10. Robert deNiro and/or Mickey Roarke in that Oedipal murder mystery Angel Heart. Okay, the fingernails are kinda creepy but the devil always wears a goatee, and neatly trimmed facial hair is SEXY, my friends! As for Mickey Roarke's peak performance, it's that greasy I-haven't-slept-in-weeks-and-I'm-covered-in-chicken-blood/DRRTY thang that just makes me want to roll him up and smoke him like a Cuban cigar. Okay that really WAS too much information. But I'm not taking it back.
Bonus: The Phantom of the Opera. Not technically the devil, but an emotionally sensitive murderous sociopath, which is close enough. And he's got a cape and a cool mask. (this should be a whole sub-genre: black cape/mask wearing rebels, which would naturally include Zorro and Darth Vadar. And probably August Strindberg.)
- Falcon
Headlines not so Heady...
Recently observed headline:
"Auschwitz Film Sad and Shocking..."
NO! Really? That's a grabber. I think I could have figured that out without the header. It's not like I would be expecting, "Auschwitz Film Buckets of Fun!" Now I know that it's hard to come up with something clever every single time - I'm a writer after all. However, sometimes our efforts are really underwhelming. Try harder next time guys.
- Falcon
"Auschwitz Film Sad and Shocking..."
NO! Really? That's a grabber. I think I could have figured that out without the header. It's not like I would be expecting, "Auschwitz Film Buckets of Fun!" Now I know that it's hard to come up with something clever every single time - I'm a writer after all. However, sometimes our efforts are really underwhelming. Try harder next time guys.
- Falcon
The Schmooze Shall Inherit the Earth
Forget about the meek getting it in the will. The meek will be as fucked as they ever were when God's Executor sits down at the table. It's the guy who showed up at the cocktail party and said, "Hey God I really admire what you've done around here - wow, only seven days, eh? That's fantastic. I really think you've captured a nice balance of good and evil. And those antelope? Awesome idea dude. Just gorgeous creatures. Hey any time you want to get together and work on something give me a call. Here's my card." It's THAT guy who will inherit the earth. The capital "S" Schmoozer.
But let's give the devil his due. These double tongued snake charmers have a 7th sense that goes beyond ESP. It's like how snakes can smell everything they need to know about their environment with their tongue. These characters (men and women alike) can sum up instantly what their target needs to feel special. They feed you the right ego-junk - and before you know it, bitch, you're smacked up on your own inflated vanity - and you're HOOKED! And believe me, the easiest egos to pump up are the ones that are already completely deflated.
So get thee behind me Satan! Or maybe let me get behind thee and I'll squeeze in the door after you while the bouncer's distracted.
- Falcon
But let's give the devil his due. These double tongued snake charmers have a 7th sense that goes beyond ESP. It's like how snakes can smell everything they need to know about their environment with their tongue. These characters (men and women alike) can sum up instantly what their target needs to feel special. They feed you the right ego-junk - and before you know it, bitch, you're smacked up on your own inflated vanity - and you're HOOKED! And believe me, the easiest egos to pump up are the ones that are already completely deflated.
So get thee behind me Satan! Or maybe let me get behind thee and I'll squeeze in the door after you while the bouncer's distracted.
- Falcon
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Stay Level
I asked someone I don't know for help with something. He wrote me back and expressed admiration for my writing, and my looks. Double whammy. Flirting with my intellectual and physical vanity all in one sentence. I'm completely disarmed. I'm all "oh look what a pretty wooden horse let's bring it in and have a beer."
It's funny - as women we would like to think that we are above the trickery of shameless flattery, but it turns out shameless flattery works every time. As much as people can control you with their brittleness, creating doubt within yourself, well, you know what they say about the flies and the honey and the vinegar.
The question is will I really continue to give over my personal power to ANYONE who tells me I'm cool - how do I stay level? How do I believe in my own coolness without relying on lip-service validation by anyone that I think is cooler than me - and that would apply to the majority of people I deal with. I think the guy living under the bridge downtown is cooler than me because he's not all "hung up on materialism." What chance do I have against the creative and productive folk that surround me?
I should be more like my friend Bovine. In this case, it's not just a nickname, it's a state of being that describes him perfectly - as placid and grounded as a two tonne steer. I admire that.Perhaps I should cultivate the Spirit of the Bovine within myself. Placid, unshakeable, gentle yet massively strong. Oh to look on the world with the big brown gentle eyes of Buddhist detachment inherent in the dairy set. Maybe I should start small - maybe I should be more Ovine first.
Til then, I commend myself to your sensible hands and hearts. Yours always, pathetically and loathesomely,
- Falcon
It's funny - as women we would like to think that we are above the trickery of shameless flattery, but it turns out shameless flattery works every time. As much as people can control you with their brittleness, creating doubt within yourself, well, you know what they say about the flies and the honey and the vinegar.
The question is will I really continue to give over my personal power to ANYONE who tells me I'm cool - how do I stay level? How do I believe in my own coolness without relying on lip-service validation by anyone that I think is cooler than me - and that would apply to the majority of people I deal with. I think the guy living under the bridge downtown is cooler than me because he's not all "hung up on materialism." What chance do I have against the creative and productive folk that surround me?
I should be more like my friend Bovine. In this case, it's not just a nickname, it's a state of being that describes him perfectly - as placid and grounded as a two tonne steer. I admire that.Perhaps I should cultivate the Spirit of the Bovine within myself. Placid, unshakeable, gentle yet massively strong. Oh to look on the world with the big brown gentle eyes of Buddhist detachment inherent in the dairy set. Maybe I should start small - maybe I should be more Ovine first.
Til then, I commend myself to your sensible hands and hearts. Yours always, pathetically and loathesomely,
- Falcon
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Into the Woods
All right, I'm off to Forestberg for a murder mystery. Yup, I know, sounds like it should be our murder... a troupe of wandering actors in a snowbound van, lost like sheep in the deep dark woods of Forestberg. Something unmistakably M. Night Shymalan about it. If you hear of a troupe of Calgary actors being devoured by mysterious warthog creatures in the forests of Forestberg, just assume the blog is cancelled...
- Falcon
- Falcon
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Love/Snub
It is perhaps amusing, more often frustrating, that my days are coloured with a constant mix of people who love me and people who snub me.
Sometimes I think it is because I am engaged in the Arts, and we Artists are high strung and volatile for the most part, and pinball off of each other rapidly and randomly - although we can never seem to escape the tilted parameters of the game. Sometimes I wonder if accountants and doctors have to deal with the same type of thing. Who knows, maybe they do. Having walked though lawyers' circles I know they do. Maybe it's the same everywhere and social behaviour never really develops past Grade 1 recess dynamics.
Sigh.
For example, let's look at the people that loved/snubbed me today:
Snub: Was passed over for a gig.
Love: Was praised at a different audition.
Snub: Was passed over by a boy.
Love: Was praised by a different boy.
Snub: Was snubbed by a group of people that I describe to others as my "friends."
Love: Was loved at a job interview.
Love: Was loved by a group of people that I describe to others as my "co-workers" but who I should upgrade to friends, all things considered.
Love: Was loved by some dear friends who obviously don't mind hanging out with me at recess, underneath the Creative Playground (tm), while the cool kids play dodgeball on the other side of the pavement.
So all in all I can't complain too much, as long as the loves outnumber the snubs.
And since I'm definitely weighing heavy on the love, I'm gonna spread it around. I love you guys, whoever you are.
- Falcon.
Sometimes I think it is because I am engaged in the Arts, and we Artists are high strung and volatile for the most part, and pinball off of each other rapidly and randomly - although we can never seem to escape the tilted parameters of the game. Sometimes I wonder if accountants and doctors have to deal with the same type of thing. Who knows, maybe they do. Having walked though lawyers' circles I know they do. Maybe it's the same everywhere and social behaviour never really develops past Grade 1 recess dynamics.
Sigh.
For example, let's look at the people that loved/snubbed me today:
Snub: Was passed over for a gig.
Love: Was praised at a different audition.
Snub: Was passed over by a boy.
Love: Was praised by a different boy.
Snub: Was snubbed by a group of people that I describe to others as my "friends."
Love: Was loved at a job interview.
Love: Was loved by a group of people that I describe to others as my "co-workers" but who I should upgrade to friends, all things considered.
Love: Was loved by some dear friends who obviously don't mind hanging out with me at recess, underneath the Creative Playground (tm), while the cool kids play dodgeball on the other side of the pavement.
So all in all I can't complain too much, as long as the loves outnumber the snubs.
And since I'm definitely weighing heavy on the love, I'm gonna spread it around. I love you guys, whoever you are.
- Falcon.
Monday, January 10, 2005
International Avenue
Recently there was an initiative to clean up the image of Forest Lawn - a neighbourhood here in Calgary with a somewhat seedy reputation. The powers-that-be decided that it would spruce things up a bit in the eyes of the Globe and the International traveller to rename that part of 17th Avenue east of downtown: International Avenue.
This leads me to wonder what would happen if this strategy actually worked? What if, drawn by the allure of "International Avenue" a world traveller from Paris, or Rome, or Prague booked a hotel on International Avenue in Calgary, Alberta, hoping to get a taste of Canada.
Well first of all he (let's call him a "he" for the sake of argument. After all, this international traveller could very well be a "she" but I just would rather not put her through this experiment. I would spare her the trauma) - as I was saying, first of all he would have to take the greyhound from the airport, which conveniently pulls up on International Avenue right by a gas station and a neighbourhood pub. How friendly! How quaint! A neighbourhood pub. Then he'd be able to check into his rooms at roadside motel and start exploring Canada. Look at the modern conveniences available in Canada! Right on International Avenue you can have a cheque cashed - 24 hours a day! And with that cash burning a whole in our traveller's pocket, he'd be able to spend it at any number of exotic places - look! There are at least 2 cheque-cashing places kitty corner to each other, and the shopping is incredible - there's a pawn shop on every street corner. And how tropical does this sound? - Paradise Lanes, where the globe-trotting set can bowl til 11 pm every night. Feeling peckish? How about an affordable meal at "Western & Chinese Food?" Or Dairy Queen? Spill something on your tie? No problem! Have your clothes dry-cleaned at Lou's. Need entertainment? The Drive-In is just down the block - oh wait, it's closed down. No worries - there's an Adult Mart right across the street. Come on and Sex Up Your Life in Sophisticated, Sexy Canada! Fall in love with International Avenue? Move in! There's a spot reserved for you at Trailer Court (no, it doesn't have a name, it's just called "Trailer Court" and the words are apparently hand-written with an old red jiffy marker onto an elliptical light-box sign reminiscent of 50's burger joints). Don't feel like driving? Take the #1 bus right into downtown and be part of the fascinating local scene by talking to the guy next to you with the briefcase wrapped in aluminum foil. Doesn't that sound like fun?
Ah, International Avenue - Gateway to the World.
- Falcon.
This leads me to wonder what would happen if this strategy actually worked? What if, drawn by the allure of "International Avenue" a world traveller from Paris, or Rome, or Prague booked a hotel on International Avenue in Calgary, Alberta, hoping to get a taste of Canada.
Well first of all he (let's call him a "he" for the sake of argument. After all, this international traveller could very well be a "she" but I just would rather not put her through this experiment. I would spare her the trauma) - as I was saying, first of all he would have to take the greyhound from the airport, which conveniently pulls up on International Avenue right by a gas station and a neighbourhood pub. How friendly! How quaint! A neighbourhood pub. Then he'd be able to check into his rooms at roadside motel and start exploring Canada. Look at the modern conveniences available in Canada! Right on International Avenue you can have a cheque cashed - 24 hours a day! And with that cash burning a whole in our traveller's pocket, he'd be able to spend it at any number of exotic places - look! There are at least 2 cheque-cashing places kitty corner to each other, and the shopping is incredible - there's a pawn shop on every street corner. And how tropical does this sound? - Paradise Lanes, where the globe-trotting set can bowl til 11 pm every night. Feeling peckish? How about an affordable meal at "Western & Chinese Food?" Or Dairy Queen? Spill something on your tie? No problem! Have your clothes dry-cleaned at Lou's. Need entertainment? The Drive-In is just down the block - oh wait, it's closed down. No worries - there's an Adult Mart right across the street. Come on and Sex Up Your Life in Sophisticated, Sexy Canada! Fall in love with International Avenue? Move in! There's a spot reserved for you at Trailer Court (no, it doesn't have a name, it's just called "Trailer Court" and the words are apparently hand-written with an old red jiffy marker onto an elliptical light-box sign reminiscent of 50's burger joints). Don't feel like driving? Take the #1 bus right into downtown and be part of the fascinating local scene by talking to the guy next to you with the briefcase wrapped in aluminum foil. Doesn't that sound like fun?
Ah, International Avenue - Gateway to the World.
- Falcon.
Manic Monday
One of the questions "they" ask when diagnosing Mania is "Do you have Great Plans for the World?" and I have to admit that I do. More on that later.
I am beginning to think that in a small way I may actually have manic-depressive tendencies. I seem to be happy right now, but this happiness is just as inexplicable as my ash-grey despair of a few months ago. Not to mention the fantastic despair I experienced 2 summers ago - for at least 2 weeks I really had a hard time picking myself up off the kitchen floor and managed to survive despite a very limited diet of Twizzlers and scotch. In the end I learned something very valuable - that sometimes a good Sandwich can alleviate the symptoms of even the darkest depression. At the point where I really did think "if I don't get up off this floor and find a sandwich I will probably die - how do I feel about that?" I decided to drag my sorry sad ass to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I will say that this is probably the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life. And my life is FRAUGHT with difficulties...
At any rate, I had a good meal that night, and afterwards I discovered that I was still just as sad as I was before - I just didn't care as much. It didn't seem to matter. And at least I was able to derive pleasure from things again. For a while I was walking around like that little cotton ball guy in that Zoloft commercial - you know, where he sees the little birds that he usually loves but just doesn't enjoy them anymore? That was me. In fact I still cry when I see that commercial. "I know exactly how you feel!" I say to the unresponsive TV screen. Only when I no longer seemed capable of feeling pleasure, or pain, or anxiety, but just wandered through life leaking a constant stream of inexplicable and silent tears, I thought I had reached a kind of Buddhist Enlightenment: the abolition of desire. I no longer Wanted. Anything. I now know that I was just depressed. Probably suffering from a chemical imbalance of some kind. I know a guy who would argue with me that there were real reasons for my suffering. Ironically, that same guy would be the primary cause of my suffering as I knew it at the time. But even then I couldn't help thinking that there had to be more to it than that; surely this engulfing sadness - this endless dark and chalky emotional landscape - couldn't be just because of HIM. That seemed to allot far too much importance on one guy and one failed relationship. Even in the black talon-grip of depression that seemed irrational.
But that was then, and this is now, and as I say I feel quite good about things. And I have no real idea why that should be. After all, for a good portion of September - December I was, well, let's say High Strung about things. I was literally quivering all the time. I was under a good deal of stress and probably exhausted, which caused me to see and hear things that weren't there and to feel random parts of my body vibrating. I was like a horse crammed in the gate just before the gun goes off at the Kentucky Derby, eyes rolling back in my head, frothing at the mouth, all tensed muscles and quivering nerves about to explode.
Then I went home for the Holidays for what I like to call "Long Night's Journey Into an even Longer Darker Night." And then I wound up with a three day migraine in a dorm room of a foreign country. But somehow on my return I was no longer High Strung. I felt calm and peaceful. The only real thing I can link this to is:
1. I bought groceries on my first day home.
2. I cleaned my apartment on my second day home.
Subsequently I felt an extraordinary rising feeling of happiness; a peculiar tide on which I continue to float. Can it really be as easy as this? Is happiness truly as simple as a good Sandwich and a clean apartment? Well, as long as it works for me I can't complain. And I won't. Although I remain slightly suspicious.
Nonetheless I really do have Great Plans for the World. I feel a little like Dr. McCoy on that ancient episode of Star Trek where he wore this Helmet of Knowledge which gave him the strength and confidence to re-install Spock's Brain into Spock's Skull. In the episode Dr. McCoy, under the influence of this temporary brilliance, has eyes wide as saucers transfixed in a kind of mad stare as he foams out, "Why couldn't I see this before? It's so easy a child could do it!!! Replacing a brain - it's child's play!" And so this is how my brain feels now - lit up like an amusement park after nightfall, synapses firing wildly, telling me I too could be Rich and Famous if only I had a way to wake up the world to my brilliant ideas, such as:
1. Selling liquid hand soap in bulk at the local grocery store. Face it - we all love those little antibacterial bottles in the bathroom. Unlike bars of soap there is no buildup of hard soapy ridges on your sink ledge or boggy soap residue in the dish. But dammit! Every time you solve one problem (messy soap scum) you create another (environmental waste in the form of plastic bottles) Why has no one ever thought before of selling liquid soap in bulk? I see a big truck with a hose pulling up to the Co-Op and filling up great tanks of the stuff. We consumers could come to the grocery store and fill up our little bottles of hand soap much the same as we would big jugs of water. It's so easy a child could have thought of it! But why does no one do it?
2. Okay, I've forgotten the others. It's true - I come up with a few Brilliant Ideas a month and then promptly forget them as my hard-disk-brain-space is taken up with minutiae of the day.
3. Most of my Brilliant Ideas are related to my work field: the Arts. I have a list of at least 7 Brilliant Plays I have yet to write on my white board beside my desk. Why does no one else recognize how great these ideas are? i.e.:
a) a musical about Medieval Viking Lifeguards patrolling the fjords which I would call Beo-Watch.
b) a One Man version of Ibsen's An Enemy of the People.
c) a historical play based on a famous turn of the century murder-suicide case that happened down the street from me at a house that is now an Esthetics Salon called "The Magic Room."
d) a play about Sigmund Freud and Cocaine, with which he self-medicated regularly, and while under its influence promoted it as a cure-all.
e) a 3 man adaptation of La Dame aux Camelias reset in New York in the Roaring 20's.
f) a solo show based on my experiences on the road last summer called RoadKill.
g) a solo show called Short Leash about a Nurse, an aging cabaret singer, and a lapdog.
h) a short skit which recasts a climactic scene in MacBeth between the title character and Malcolm, with MacBeth and Malcolm X. Or MacBeth and Malcolm in the Middle.
I also have Great Plans for the theatre in general. I was recently convinced that starting up a theatre company from the profits of a grow-op would be an incredible marketing manoever. Sure, someone would get arrested eventually, but think of the PUBLICITY! We'd get in the Globe and Mail for sure. Imagine the angles - especially with a couple of Moms in the group. "We just wanted to put on a play," would be the headline for the article detailing how cutbacks to arts funding in Alberta have forced nice normal folks to resort to criminal behaviour just to support their arts jones. We could sell out a couple of seasons in advance by bringing in shows like "Reefer Madness - the Musical" and recent fringe hit, "The Reefer Man." Follow that up with my Freud/coke play and you've got a hit company.
However, no one seems convinced enough to support me in these causes.
Nonetheless, if anyone hears of a way to get bulk liquid hand soap on the market, please let me know.
Meanwhile, I'm just going to enjoy this little random wave of Happy while it lasts. Won't be long before the tide goes out again.
- Falcon.
I am beginning to think that in a small way I may actually have manic-depressive tendencies. I seem to be happy right now, but this happiness is just as inexplicable as my ash-grey despair of a few months ago. Not to mention the fantastic despair I experienced 2 summers ago - for at least 2 weeks I really had a hard time picking myself up off the kitchen floor and managed to survive despite a very limited diet of Twizzlers and scotch. In the end I learned something very valuable - that sometimes a good Sandwich can alleviate the symptoms of even the darkest depression. At the point where I really did think "if I don't get up off this floor and find a sandwich I will probably die - how do I feel about that?" I decided to drag my sorry sad ass to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I will say that this is probably the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life. And my life is FRAUGHT with difficulties...
At any rate, I had a good meal that night, and afterwards I discovered that I was still just as sad as I was before - I just didn't care as much. It didn't seem to matter. And at least I was able to derive pleasure from things again. For a while I was walking around like that little cotton ball guy in that Zoloft commercial - you know, where he sees the little birds that he usually loves but just doesn't enjoy them anymore? That was me. In fact I still cry when I see that commercial. "I know exactly how you feel!" I say to the unresponsive TV screen. Only when I no longer seemed capable of feeling pleasure, or pain, or anxiety, but just wandered through life leaking a constant stream of inexplicable and silent tears, I thought I had reached a kind of Buddhist Enlightenment: the abolition of desire. I no longer Wanted. Anything. I now know that I was just depressed. Probably suffering from a chemical imbalance of some kind. I know a guy who would argue with me that there were real reasons for my suffering. Ironically, that same guy would be the primary cause of my suffering as I knew it at the time. But even then I couldn't help thinking that there had to be more to it than that; surely this engulfing sadness - this endless dark and chalky emotional landscape - couldn't be just because of HIM. That seemed to allot far too much importance on one guy and one failed relationship. Even in the black talon-grip of depression that seemed irrational.
But that was then, and this is now, and as I say I feel quite good about things. And I have no real idea why that should be. After all, for a good portion of September - December I was, well, let's say High Strung about things. I was literally quivering all the time. I was under a good deal of stress and probably exhausted, which caused me to see and hear things that weren't there and to feel random parts of my body vibrating. I was like a horse crammed in the gate just before the gun goes off at the Kentucky Derby, eyes rolling back in my head, frothing at the mouth, all tensed muscles and quivering nerves about to explode.
Then I went home for the Holidays for what I like to call "Long Night's Journey Into an even Longer Darker Night." And then I wound up with a three day migraine in a dorm room of a foreign country. But somehow on my return I was no longer High Strung. I felt calm and peaceful. The only real thing I can link this to is:
1. I bought groceries on my first day home.
2. I cleaned my apartment on my second day home.
Subsequently I felt an extraordinary rising feeling of happiness; a peculiar tide on which I continue to float. Can it really be as easy as this? Is happiness truly as simple as a good Sandwich and a clean apartment? Well, as long as it works for me I can't complain. And I won't. Although I remain slightly suspicious.
Nonetheless I really do have Great Plans for the World. I feel a little like Dr. McCoy on that ancient episode of Star Trek where he wore this Helmet of Knowledge which gave him the strength and confidence to re-install Spock's Brain into Spock's Skull. In the episode Dr. McCoy, under the influence of this temporary brilliance, has eyes wide as saucers transfixed in a kind of mad stare as he foams out, "Why couldn't I see this before? It's so easy a child could do it!!! Replacing a brain - it's child's play!" And so this is how my brain feels now - lit up like an amusement park after nightfall, synapses firing wildly, telling me I too could be Rich and Famous if only I had a way to wake up the world to my brilliant ideas, such as:
1. Selling liquid hand soap in bulk at the local grocery store. Face it - we all love those little antibacterial bottles in the bathroom. Unlike bars of soap there is no buildup of hard soapy ridges on your sink ledge or boggy soap residue in the dish. But dammit! Every time you solve one problem (messy soap scum) you create another (environmental waste in the form of plastic bottles) Why has no one ever thought before of selling liquid soap in bulk? I see a big truck with a hose pulling up to the Co-Op and filling up great tanks of the stuff. We consumers could come to the grocery store and fill up our little bottles of hand soap much the same as we would big jugs of water. It's so easy a child could have thought of it! But why does no one do it?
2. Okay, I've forgotten the others. It's true - I come up with a few Brilliant Ideas a month and then promptly forget them as my hard-disk-brain-space is taken up with minutiae of the day.
3. Most of my Brilliant Ideas are related to my work field: the Arts. I have a list of at least 7 Brilliant Plays I have yet to write on my white board beside my desk. Why does no one else recognize how great these ideas are? i.e.:
a) a musical about Medieval Viking Lifeguards patrolling the fjords which I would call Beo-Watch.
b) a One Man version of Ibsen's An Enemy of the People.
c) a historical play based on a famous turn of the century murder-suicide case that happened down the street from me at a house that is now an Esthetics Salon called "The Magic Room."
d) a play about Sigmund Freud and Cocaine, with which he self-medicated regularly, and while under its influence promoted it as a cure-all.
e) a 3 man adaptation of La Dame aux Camelias reset in New York in the Roaring 20's.
f) a solo show based on my experiences on the road last summer called RoadKill.
g) a solo show called Short Leash about a Nurse, an aging cabaret singer, and a lapdog.
h) a short skit which recasts a climactic scene in MacBeth between the title character and Malcolm, with MacBeth and Malcolm X. Or MacBeth and Malcolm in the Middle.
I also have Great Plans for the theatre in general. I was recently convinced that starting up a theatre company from the profits of a grow-op would be an incredible marketing manoever. Sure, someone would get arrested eventually, but think of the PUBLICITY! We'd get in the Globe and Mail for sure. Imagine the angles - especially with a couple of Moms in the group. "We just wanted to put on a play," would be the headline for the article detailing how cutbacks to arts funding in Alberta have forced nice normal folks to resort to criminal behaviour just to support their arts jones. We could sell out a couple of seasons in advance by bringing in shows like "Reefer Madness - the Musical" and recent fringe hit, "The Reefer Man." Follow that up with my Freud/coke play and you've got a hit company.
However, no one seems convinced enough to support me in these causes.
Nonetheless, if anyone hears of a way to get bulk liquid hand soap on the market, please let me know.
Meanwhile, I'm just going to enjoy this little random wave of Happy while it lasts. Won't be long before the tide goes out again.
- Falcon.
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