Sunday, September 9, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
World Got You Down? STOMP! for Joy!
Los Angeles — March, 13, 2003
Hey, it happens to us all. It’s easy to get frustrated and stressed-out in a world that is ever quickening its pace. Deadlines to meet, kids to get to practice, groceries, laundry...Sleep? What’s that? Lunch? Look! It’s almost time for dinner! and Oops, missed that payment. Who’s got time to really live at all?
I was having just that kind of day today. And then I saw “STOMP!” And I remembered something I'd gone weeks without. Play, in the purest form.
Luckily, I’d found the tickets this morning (running back in for my phone), but still, there had been that moment of panic. I did my errands on the way home, Gas. Groceries. Home 10 minutes, grab a sandwich, eat in the car, fight traffic on Wilshire Blvd. Huge line to the parking. But I arrived just as the doors were closing, and quickly grabbed my seat.
At the very least, this one should keep me awake.
What an understatement.
They started with brooms, in gentle wisps and occasional cracks of wood. In seconds, I was mesmerized. Enchanted. At first, I thought it was sleep deprivation, taking me into trance. But what it turned out to be, was much, much better. Life. Energy, creativity, humor, woven seamlessly into a tapestry of sound that was captivating beyond belief. The choreography was pure perfection. The athleticism of the players was astounding. The rhythmic compositions floated at, and at times went beyond the highest level. (And from me, that means something, because I’ve spent some years around some serious drumming and dance.)
Even more striking, was the silence. Yes, that’s what I said, Silence. Not one word of dialog. Without the chatter we are so used to every day, that we are so adept at tuning out, all the audience could do, was tune in. And listen. Really, listen.
In the beginning, we listened for words. But as we waited, it became obvious that they needed none. The subtlety, the dynamics, the exchanges and interruptions...were dialog. Two characters even conversed with the entire audience, using rhythm, through call and response.
And it was a thing of beauty. Now, I have seen this kind of thing before, at drum circles. A person who has never beat a drum before is asked to give it a try, and, in playing her small part, is inducted into the sacred event of conversing in rhythm only. I’ve done it with kindergarten kids, and seen how quickly their mouths quiet when they find this new voice. The entire audience, myself included, was hooked. Between-number applause was intense, but short, because we knew the next piece might begin with a simple snap, the scuff of a shoe, or the turning of a page.
But the most masterful part of the whole production was the plot. The spark that ignited each piece was curiosity. Simple curiosity. Set in an industrial environment, the players were workers. These men and women were strong, capable people, working hard at whatever work they were given. But they didn’t act like the underclass. They did not portray worker bees with no ambition but to please the bosses. Far from it. Whatever they were doing, whether working or taking a break, they seemed incapable of letting time simply pass by. In silence and loud interaction, whether onstage alone or with the entire group, each was called to act. Inner-act: to entertain oneself; Interact, to entertain someone they like. The whole group always joined in, on a mission to join the other voices in perfect precision. And when the inevitable competitive nature emerged, we had ourselves an old-fashioned “cutting contest.” But always, there was respect. And always time for the other to take it to a higher level, because discovery, creativity, and cleverness ruled.
There they were, this group of hard-working adults who have retained the best of what it means to be a child. There is no time but now. Why should I sit still when I can break the silence with a strange noise? I’m bored...what can I make? Hey, did you hear that? Try this! Look what I can do! Mine’s bigger!
The audience, too, won my heart with their willingness to trot directly into childness, and play right along with the performers. It was freedom for us all for the time that it lasted. And without a word, we agreed to make it last! As we exited the theater to the parking structure, we found ourselves meld into one large organism, snaking down a concrete tunnel, moving in unison toward our vehicles with mouths still quieted, and the rhythms still dancing in our heads. My feet could not contain it, and soon I was descending the stairs with rhythmic steps. My best friend joined me, making the rhythm stronger. There were giggles above and below us, as the tunnel held the sounds and carried it to the others. Someone added an intermittent clink by hitting something against the steel handrail. Snaps, and claps, car keys, and more giggles added instruments to our spontaneous orchestra, suspending us all in that glorious moment, and making us performers in an extended oncore. Until, at last, and far too soon, we arrived at the parking level, where the music quickly dispersed into our individual bubbles.
If you haven’t seen the show, you must. You simply must! Purchase the DVD. Better yet, take your children to see a live performance. Afterwards, when you get in the car, turn off the radio and don’t say a word. Tap out a light rhythm on the steering wheel or dash. Use the straw in a lidded take-out cup as a cuica (the squeaky Brasilian instrument), or tap your fingernails on the SoBe bottle living under the seat. Listen to what happens then. Just listen to the possibilities. Silence the chatter, drop the stress, and let yourself just live life in the moment.
And then, do it every day.
Hey, it happens to us all. It’s easy to get frustrated and stressed-out in a world that is ever quickening its pace. Deadlines to meet, kids to get to practice, groceries, laundry...Sleep? What’s that? Lunch? Look! It’s almost time for dinner! and Oops, missed that payment. Who’s got time to really live at all?
I was having just that kind of day today. And then I saw “STOMP!” And I remembered something I'd gone weeks without. Play, in the purest form.
Luckily, I’d found the tickets this morning (running back in for my phone), but still, there had been that moment of panic. I did my errands on the way home, Gas. Groceries. Home 10 minutes, grab a sandwich, eat in the car, fight traffic on Wilshire Blvd. Huge line to the parking.
At the very least, this one should keep me awake.
What an understatement.
They started with brooms, in gentle wisps and occasional cracks of wood. In seconds, I was mesmerized. Enchanted. At first, I thought it was sleep deprivation, taking me into trance. But what it turned out to be, was much, much better. Life. Energy, creativity, humor, woven seamlessly into a tapestry of sound that was captivating beyond belief. The choreography was pure perfection. The athleticism of the players was astounding. The rhythmic compositions floated at, and at times went beyond the highest level. (And from me, that means something, because I’ve spent some years around some serious drumming and dance.)
Even more striking, was the silence. Yes, that’s what I said, Silence. Not one word of dialog. Without the chatter we are so used to every day, that we are so adept at tuning out, all the audience could do, was tune in. And listen. Really, listen.
In the beginning, we listened for words. But as we waited, it became obvious that they needed none. The subtlety, the dynamics, the exchanges and interruptions...were dialog. Two characters even conversed with the entire audience, using rhythm, through call and response.
And it was a thing of beauty. Now, I have seen this kind of thing before, at drum circles. A person who has never beat a drum before is asked to give it a try, and, in playing her small part, is inducted into the sacred event of conversing in rhythm only. I’ve done it with kindergarten kids, and seen how quickly their mouths quiet when they find this new voice. The entire audience, myself included, was hooked. Between-number applause was intense, but short, because we knew the next piece might begin with a simple snap, the scuff of a shoe, or the turning of a page.
But the most masterful part of the whole production was the plot. The spark that ignited each piece was curiosity. Simple curiosity. Set in an industrial environment, the players were workers. These men and women were strong, capable people, working hard at whatever work they were given. But they didn’t act like the underclass. They did not portray worker bees with no ambition but to please the bosses. Far from it. Whatever they were doing, whether working or taking a break, they seemed incapable of letting time simply pass by. In silence and loud interaction, whether onstage alone or with the entire group, each was called to act. Inner-act: to entertain oneself; Interact, to entertain someone they like. The whole group always joined in, on a mission to join the other voices in perfect precision. And when the inevitable competitive nature emerged, we had ourselves an old-fashioned “cutting contest.” But always, there was respect. And always time for the other to take it to a higher level, because discovery, creativity, and cleverness ruled.
There they were, this group of hard-working adults who have retained the best of what it means to be a child. There is no time but now. Why should I sit still when I can break the silence with a strange noise? I’m bored...what can I make? Hey, did you hear that? Try this! Look what I can do! Mine’s bigger!
The audience, too, won my heart with their willingness to trot directly into childness, and play right along with the performers. It was freedom for us all for the time that it lasted. And without a word, we agreed to make it last! As we exited the theater to the parking structure, we found ourselves meld into one large organism, snaking down a concrete tunnel, moving in unison toward our vehicles with mouths still quieted, and the rhythms still dancing in our heads. My feet could not contain it, and soon I was descending the stairs with rhythmic steps. My best friend joined me, making the rhythm stronger. There were giggles above and below us, as the tunnel held the sounds and carried it to the others. Someone added an intermittent clink by hitting something against the steel handrail. Snaps, and claps, car keys, and more giggles added instruments to our spontaneous orchestra, suspending us all in that glorious moment, and making us performers in an extended oncore. Until, at last, and far too soon, we arrived at the parking level, where the music quickly dispersed into our individual bubbles.
If you haven’t seen the show, you must. You simply must! Purchase the DVD. Better yet, take your children to see a live performance. Afterwards, when you get in the car, turn off the radio and don’t say a word. Tap out a light rhythm on the steering wheel or dash. Use the straw in a lidded take-out cup as a cuica (the squeaky Brasilian instrument), or tap your fingernails on the SoBe bottle living under the seat. Listen to what happens then. Just listen to the possibilities. Silence the chatter, drop the stress, and let yourself just live life in the moment.
And then, do it every day.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
If you feel inspired, please do the same, or post here. This is more powerful than you may think. Try it!
1. that I have a job doing what I LOVE to do.
2. that I have a loving, compatible partner/mate.
3. that I have wonderful animals who make me smile every single day.
4. that my family members accept me as I am.
5. that I believe so strongly in my own life.
6. that I have re-gained some economic power, lost to me for years.
7. that I have co-workers who inspire me daily.
8. that I have not waited to write and finish my first book.
9. that there is always another creative project in me waiting to be born.
10. that I have found someone I was looking for, and that I believe I will reconnect with the loved ones I have recently lost contact with.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Repealing the Job-Saving Affordable Health Care Act
Question: So... if it doesn't actually kill jobs, then we're done here, right?
Nothing left to do, it seems... We don't have a law called Obamacare, or a law that kills jobs.
The debate is going so well, we should extend it! We're learning all about what it does! Besides, I want to hear directly from the mouths of ALL the people who because of The Affordable Care Act:
• lost a job
• paid more for prescriptions
• decided not to hire a person
• had to layoff a person
• had fewer choices to cover their families
• is less likely to get preventative screenings or treatment...
(note: these are past tense... meaning it has already happened...
Nothing left to do, it seems... We don't have a law called Obamacare, or a law that kills jobs.
The debate is going so well, we should extend it! We're learning all about what it does! Besides, I want to hear directly from the mouths of ALL the people who because of The Affordable Care Act:
• lost a job
• paid more for prescriptions
• decided not to hire a person
• had to layoff a person
• had fewer choices to cover their families
• is less likely to get preventative screenings or treatment...
(note: these are past tense... meaning it has already happened...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
To Be Or Not Be A Hero: What makes a hero, and who decides?
I am so sick and tired of hearing this: "I'm not a hero... it's the [other people] who are the real heroes." We heard it again this week from Daniel Hernandez, Representative Gabby Gifford's intern, the brave young man who ran toward the bullets and used his brand new first aid skills to keep her alive until the emergency responders arrived.
Why is it so difficult for a person who has behaved like a hero, even if it was only for one split-second potentially life-saving moment, to accept the praise of his community and allow himself to be called by the only label that adequately fits? For the past few days, I have been so significantly perplexed by this question that I decided to make the topic the subject of this inaugural "Dingaroo Chew" Blog.
Obviously, the discussion must begin with the official definition. Hoping for a clue as to where this resistance originated, I pulled out The Oxford American Dictionary of Current English, which defines "hero" this way:
1. a person noted or admired for nobility, courage, outstanding achievements, etc.
2. the chief male character in a poem, play, story, etc.
3. [from Greek Antiquity] a man of superhuman qualities, favored by the gods; a demigod.
4. a submarine sandwich.
Bingo. Here we find the location of the problem, right there in definition #3. Part of our consciousness must be hung up in Greek Antiquity, living in the shadow of an archetype we do not believe we can ever embody, even for a moment. The problem is, WE DO. We do embody the hero archetype... in varying degrees, certainly, and perhaps in fleeting moments, but we ordinary men and women and children DO occasionally do this "hero" thing. (Animals do it too, but they are smart enough not to dismiss the label, so I leave them out of the discussion here.) Now, I don't know anyone who would say that heroes are only demigods, or that they accomplish feats of bravery only because they are especially favored by the divine. No one would mistake Daniel Hernandez or any other hero for being half-god (as the Greeks believed) any more than they would mistake him for a subway sandwich. So why do we seem utterly unable to use the term hero to describe ourselves? Or even graciously accept the compliment when someone else says it? What are we afraid of? Overconfidence? Pressure that we have to repeat it?
Why is it so difficult for a person who has behaved like a hero, even if it was only for one split-second potentially life-saving moment, to accept the praise of his community and allow himself to be called by the only label that adequately fits? For the past few days, I have been so significantly perplexed by this question that I decided to make the topic the subject of this inaugural "Dingaroo Chew" Blog.
Obviously, the discussion must begin with the official definition. Hoping for a clue as to where this resistance originated, I pulled out The Oxford American Dictionary of Current English, which defines "hero" this way:
1. a person noted or admired for nobility, courage, outstanding achievements, etc.
2. the chief male character in a poem, play, story, etc.
3. [from Greek Antiquity] a man of superhuman qualities, favored by the gods; a demigod.
4. a submarine sandwich.
Bingo. Here we find the location of the problem, right there in definition #3. Part of our consciousness must be hung up in Greek Antiquity, living in the shadow of an archetype we do not believe we can ever embody, even for a moment. The problem is, WE DO. We do embody the hero archetype... in varying degrees, certainly, and perhaps in fleeting moments, but we ordinary men and women and children DO occasionally do this "hero" thing. (Animals do it too, but they are smart enough not to dismiss the label, so I leave them out of the discussion here.) Now, I don't know anyone who would say that heroes are only demigods, or that they accomplish feats of bravery only because they are especially favored by the divine. No one would mistake Daniel Hernandez or any other hero for being half-god (as the Greeks believed) any more than they would mistake him for a subway sandwich. So why do we seem utterly unable to use the term hero to describe ourselves? Or even graciously accept the compliment when someone else says it? What are we afraid of? Overconfidence? Pressure that we have to repeat it?
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