My Studio is my palace. Measuring less than 350 square feet, it is classroom and bedroom and treatment room and living room and most of all a laboratory for my spirit. The antique Emerson cabinet grand stands where a bed might have rested up against the wall, and for a year now (we celebrate the anniversary of our independence in less than three weeks) I have spoken of ridding myself of it by any means necessary. Oh, I have tried! It is as heavy and awkward as the relationship that brought it into my life. I know not how to play it and it is merely a mediocre surface for my drifting papers and artifacts, yet it is a beautiful instrument and who am I to destroy a source of music for the sake of a mattress? I am not, not one of those.
Then love and a lover came into my life, filled it with music so sweet and a desire to sing and play. In a moment I knew the piano had to stay, and with the help of my love and my lover I would learn to play it, would love to play at learning it. The mattress could continue living in the closet, why not, but now that the imagination was not working so hard at erasing the presence of the piano, the need for proper shelves could no longer be denied. I need some good shelves, I announced to myself and a few dear ones. Days later Elizabeth arrived in the evening to borrow a costume and mentioned a bookshelf standing on the corner of my very own block. Shoes on and a short march and we two are in front of a beautiful sight to behold: a gorgeous wooden bookshelf measuring exactly the right size to fit in the left-most window alcove. Exactly is perhaps an understatement, this fit is a marvel best enjoyed with the naked eye.
And so began the second round of Spring cleaning for the season. Bookshelf organizing led to the creation of a jewelry display case, refrigerator scrubbing, dust bunny collecting, bathroom shelf mounting, and of course, closet cleaning. It is always a good idea to clean and clear my closet out, considering that half of it is occupied by said mattress. Just over a month ago I celebrated my closet clearing with a clothing swap, and this more recent sweep took with it a few more items. But not a single dress was thrown out. It is a marvel how many dresses I keep, and how I keep them all in the tiny space of my closet is a miracle, but as with the piano, I could not be convinced to throw a single one out.
Why? Whatfor? The practical one, the one who loves to throw shit out, spoke up: when will you wear all these dresses, Ophra? you would have to wear a dress a day for the entire season to get through them all. The wily one, increasingly adept at negotiating between the heart and the mind, smiled. Then that's what we'll do, darling, we'll wear a dress a day! And the lover chimed in: oh yes, but we'll not only wear them, we'll dance them! The practical one, recently softened by frequent smiles and multiple orgasms, agreed. But not without setting a few terms: let them be short dances, recorded on the flip camera and so easily uploaded, and better get the whiny one on board, because this is going to require some keyboard greasing and eye frying on the bright screen if we're going to share our pleasure with the world.
My keyboard is greasy now (I blame the popcorn), and my eyes are fried. The whiny one, relatively calm tonight after having had her fitful spotlight for the past two days, reminds us that we are all tired. Time to upload the videos.
Enjoy.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Fast Forward
Dear Blog,
I have neglected you, forsaken you even. But I did not forget you, and here I am, over a year later with a lifetime's worth of transformation to account for my cocooning. The threads of my life are silky - strong and warm and beautiful, at once practical and decadent. And I, I am a butterfly in flight, in love again after heartbreak and mindbreak and gutbreak, revealing the fabric of space as I ride the gusts, showing off my colors and landing only to commune with that which is in bloom.
And there is continuity after all: the last post, that fateful bus ride to Chiang Mai, was the start of the unfolding of the rest of my life. No time to retrace the steps, the winds will carry the scents and memories of these past months far into the future, and they will weave their way into the stories to come.
Now there is a project to launch, a dance to fall into, a love and laughter of life to embrace us and bring us together again.
Yours,
Ophra
Thursday, January 1, 2009
My body has been in constant motion for so many days that I hardly know what to do with myself now that I have a chance to settle down, kind of. Arrived in Chiang Mai at the crack of dawn, after a relatively sleepless bus ride from Bangkok. Three things redeemed the bus experience: the pink of it all, the elephant that sauntered by while we were waiting for take off in Bangkok, and the fact that it brought me closer into the local's life than any other experience I could have concocted or paid for. Oh, and the stewardess who worked so hard to make it all feel as monumental as an airplane ride.
The only other foreigners on the bus were two Germans, a young man in his late teens or very early twenties and his mother. I had decided in Bangkok, outside the tourist agency that sold us the overpriced bus tickets, that I was far more interested in sleep than conversation, but when we disembarked in Chiang Mai I turned to them in hopes of sharing a taxi. Alas, the teenage boy was convinced that the 60 Baht offer (about $1.85) was the tuk-tuk driver's attempt at a tourist rip off and that according to his map we would be better off walking. Walk we did, and in a moment of exhaustion I thought I might continue walking with them to their guest house, as I had no idea how to get to mine, but the young man offered me his cell phone and Florence was awake and taking calls, so it was off to the Boonmee Mansion with a 20 minute detour figuring out just which left I was meant to take. I happened to run into the German pair over breakfast, three or four hours later, with little fanfare.
The food is great and the first couple of days in Bangkok I was relishing the foreign sights and smells but today I've had a hard time figuring out what to eat. I am equally turned off by the restaurants catering to tourists as I am to the various street offerings which, having lost their sense of novelty mainly seem to remind me of how far from home I am.
Home is a very funny word. I guess I was referring to the little apartment I share with Lorenzo in Brooklyn. I've been answering the question "where are you from" with "new york" and quietly musing. By home I mainly mean Lorenzo, who more than any place in the world has come to house my spirit. Even our fights, or maybe especially our fights, are a reminder of my address: this is where you live these days, Ophra. So there is some cleaning and re-modelling to be done, it's true. Today is my first day on my own and it is taking a bit of effort to settle into this state but I have wanted it and needed it for a long time now.
Another run in, just now, as I attempt to write about how alone in the world I am: Laura, the American studying with Pichest whom I met earlier today happened to be at this very internet cafe. Our second encounter is very friendly: she can see that I am a little out of sorts and assures me that all will be well. This takes about 8 minutes of my last half hour of internet time, so the stories will stay short.
After my morning nap I went out to roam the town, in search of a cheaper guesthouse and new adventures. After the sensory overload that was Bangkok I am finding myself hard to impress. My tired head seemed to latch on to the idea of doing a three day jungle trek, which would mean leaving tomorrow morning, as that would be my only chance to leave for three whole days. I asked at different guest houses about my options, only half understanding what the various fliers were trying to sell me: elephant rides, whitewater rafting, jungle hiking, wow wow wow. Anyhow, luckily I allowed my brain to enjoy the task without actually accomplishing it, for to have signed up for one of these adventures would have been sheer madness as far as my body and soul are concerned right now. Stop thinking, Pichest said to me later in the afternoon. If only I knew how.
But the idea that I might be leaving tomorrow led me to decide to go visit Pichest and ask permission to study with him asap, this very afternoon. Crackbrain logic being that this way I could leave early the next morning and come back Sunday night in time to begin my studies Monday morning. Madness.
I had explicit instructions to Pichest's place, about 25 minutes out of town, and asking permission was quick and simple, so I went in to observe and was immediately taken by one man who turned out to be his son. His movement was so relaxed! Another new student arrived about forty minutes after me. Pichest sent his two newest students out to meet him and I joined them a little while later. He was training them in observing and diagnosing and I was the next guinea pig. Look at my right wrist, he tells them: blocked (oh, thank you thank you for noticing, and maybe you can help?). She looks like she is in good shape on the outside, he smiles, but hard on the inside, why? he asks me. Now this is a master, so I don't waste time with excuses like sleepless bus rides because who knows better than me how deep this strain goes. He goes straight to my neck, he knows where the pain is hanging out. And then tells me to stop thinking. Now this is the kind of adventure I've been looking for. And maybe I'll make it out to the jungle at some point yet...
The only other foreigners on the bus were two Germans, a young man in his late teens or very early twenties and his mother. I had decided in Bangkok, outside the tourist agency that sold us the overpriced bus tickets, that I was far more interested in sleep than conversation, but when we disembarked in Chiang Mai I turned to them in hopes of sharing a taxi. Alas, the teenage boy was convinced that the 60 Baht offer (about $1.85) was the tuk-tuk driver's attempt at a tourist rip off and that according to his map we would be better off walking. Walk we did, and in a moment of exhaustion I thought I might continue walking with them to their guest house, as I had no idea how to get to mine, but the young man offered me his cell phone and Florence was awake and taking calls, so it was off to the Boonmee Mansion with a 20 minute detour figuring out just which left I was meant to take. I happened to run into the German pair over breakfast, three or four hours later, with little fanfare.
The food is great and the first couple of days in Bangkok I was relishing the foreign sights and smells but today I've had a hard time figuring out what to eat. I am equally turned off by the restaurants catering to tourists as I am to the various street offerings which, having lost their sense of novelty mainly seem to remind me of how far from home I am.
Home is a very funny word. I guess I was referring to the little apartment I share with Lorenzo in Brooklyn. I've been answering the question "where are you from" with "new york" and quietly musing. By home I mainly mean Lorenzo, who more than any place in the world has come to house my spirit. Even our fights, or maybe especially our fights, are a reminder of my address: this is where you live these days, Ophra. So there is some cleaning and re-modelling to be done, it's true. Today is my first day on my own and it is taking a bit of effort to settle into this state but I have wanted it and needed it for a long time now.
Another run in, just now, as I attempt to write about how alone in the world I am: Laura, the American studying with Pichest whom I met earlier today happened to be at this very internet cafe. Our second encounter is very friendly: she can see that I am a little out of sorts and assures me that all will be well. This takes about 8 minutes of my last half hour of internet time, so the stories will stay short.
After my morning nap I went out to roam the town, in search of a cheaper guesthouse and new adventures. After the sensory overload that was Bangkok I am finding myself hard to impress. My tired head seemed to latch on to the idea of doing a three day jungle trek, which would mean leaving tomorrow morning, as that would be my only chance to leave for three whole days. I asked at different guest houses about my options, only half understanding what the various fliers were trying to sell me: elephant rides, whitewater rafting, jungle hiking, wow wow wow. Anyhow, luckily I allowed my brain to enjoy the task without actually accomplishing it, for to have signed up for one of these adventures would have been sheer madness as far as my body and soul are concerned right now. Stop thinking, Pichest said to me later in the afternoon. If only I knew how.
But the idea that I might be leaving tomorrow led me to decide to go visit Pichest and ask permission to study with him asap, this very afternoon. Crackbrain logic being that this way I could leave early the next morning and come back Sunday night in time to begin my studies Monday morning. Madness.
I had explicit instructions to Pichest's place, about 25 minutes out of town, and asking permission was quick and simple, so I went in to observe and was immediately taken by one man who turned out to be his son. His movement was so relaxed! Another new student arrived about forty minutes after me. Pichest sent his two newest students out to meet him and I joined them a little while later. He was training them in observing and diagnosing and I was the next guinea pig. Look at my right wrist, he tells them: blocked (oh, thank you thank you for noticing, and maybe you can help?). She looks like she is in good shape on the outside, he smiles, but hard on the inside, why? he asks me. Now this is a master, so I don't waste time with excuses like sleepless bus rides because who knows better than me how deep this strain goes. He goes straight to my neck, he knows where the pain is hanging out. And then tells me to stop thinking. Now this is the kind of adventure I've been looking for. And maybe I'll make it out to the jungle at some point yet...
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Existential Crisis winds down
...thanks to lover lorenzo and friend jill (who probably thinks I'm an asshole for still squatting in the nacl shit). Turns out my ego needed a little dose of self-awareness. I have a man sized ego, it's been getting me in plenty of trouble for too long now.
So I am ready to write my dad an email. And I am ready to put the nacl adventure aside: I've said what I need to say, mainly to myself, and now I can grow up already.
So I am ready to write my dad an email. And I am ready to put the nacl adventure aside: I've said what I need to say, mainly to myself, and now I can grow up already.
Existential Crisis Part 2:
Went to the rock climbing gym with Lorenzo this morning and immediately began dogging myself. My imminent defeat came quickly: a little bit of stretching, a few bouldering routes attempted mostly unsuccessfully, and a serious hit to the left knee cap and there I was on the floor, crying. Bad etiquette in a climbing gym, I'm sure, but no use trying to stop the tears. Lorenzo was wonderful, patient and loving he insisted on kissing the boo boo even as I turned him away. He'd already spent a good few minutes massaging my aching forearm, shoulder and wrist, so why should I refuse him the knee? You must leave, cries my body. You are defeating yourself cries my brain. Maybe you will regret leaving? No chance that staying will do me much good: something is on my mind and in my body and it won't let go.
Lorenzo refuses to leave me alone, even as I push him away for the umpteenth time. I know I am acting like an idiot, having declared myself a failure and then set out to prove it to myself by goading my lover into rejecting me. Thank the god in him he is so much wiser. I need to talk, but the gym is no place, so I drag him outside into the cold air for a few minutes. Mainly I proclaim my hatred of rock climbing, or the rock climbing gym, but simultaneously I am managing to calm myself down. We go back inside and Lorenzo offers to come get a tea with me. This is too much, I know. He's come here to rock climb and there is no reason that my drama should stop him. What in the world is going on, why can't I just let myself go in peace? What is so hard about accepting that my body is tired and aching and that my energy is not answering the call to climb plastic walls?
I put my shoes on and insist that he stay. He is glad to, I know. And I experience a moment of clarity in which I confess both to him and to myself that the NACL ordeal is eating away at me. Every time I dip into that bag of shit I become inexplicably nervous, unable to receive Lorenzo's touch or energy, defensive and so easily irritable. I must write that letter that has been on my mind since I spoke to Tannis on Sunday. I must find a way to get over this episode once and for all.
Went to the rock climbing gym with Lorenzo this morning and immediately began dogging myself. My imminent defeat came quickly: a little bit of stretching, a few bouldering routes attempted mostly unsuccessfully, and a serious hit to the left knee cap and there I was on the floor, crying. Bad etiquette in a climbing gym, I'm sure, but no use trying to stop the tears. Lorenzo was wonderful, patient and loving he insisted on kissing the boo boo even as I turned him away. He'd already spent a good few minutes massaging my aching forearm, shoulder and wrist, so why should I refuse him the knee? You must leave, cries my body. You are defeating yourself cries my brain. Maybe you will regret leaving? No chance that staying will do me much good: something is on my mind and in my body and it won't let go.
Lorenzo refuses to leave me alone, even as I push him away for the umpteenth time. I know I am acting like an idiot, having declared myself a failure and then set out to prove it to myself by goading my lover into rejecting me. Thank the god in him he is so much wiser. I need to talk, but the gym is no place, so I drag him outside into the cold air for a few minutes. Mainly I proclaim my hatred of rock climbing, or the rock climbing gym, but simultaneously I am managing to calm myself down. We go back inside and Lorenzo offers to come get a tea with me. This is too much, I know. He's come here to rock climb and there is no reason that my drama should stop him. What in the world is going on, why can't I just let myself go in peace? What is so hard about accepting that my body is tired and aching and that my energy is not answering the call to climb plastic walls?
I put my shoes on and insist that he stay. He is glad to, I know. And I experience a moment of clarity in which I confess both to him and to myself that the NACL ordeal is eating away at me. Every time I dip into that bag of shit I become inexplicably nervous, unable to receive Lorenzo's touch or energy, defensive and so easily irritable. I must write that letter that has been on my mind since I spoke to Tannis on Sunday. I must find a way to get over this episode once and for all.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
FireFly @ Club Europa 10/22/08
I should feel hopeless more often, if it helps me accomplish so much! Here it is, a clip of our gig at Club Europa a little more than a week ago... This was our first time using the interactive technology I've been developing, and in retrospect I can smile and say it is a miracle that it worked half of the time and that I pulled off being both the techie and the performer. This piece is part of the second of three pieces we did. It's hard to see what's going on in the video, but the image is a live feed that is being transformed by the music, via Max/Jitter and a sensor system we've started developing. These are our baby steps, as far as all the technology is concerned!
FireFly is:
Ophra Wolf, movement; Lorenzo Sanguedolce, tenor sax; Chris DiMeglio, trumpet; Adam Lane, bass; Todd Capp, drums.
FireFly @ Club Europa from Ophra Wolf on Vimeo.
FireFly is:
Ophra Wolf, movement; Lorenzo Sanguedolce, tenor sax; Chris DiMeglio, trumpet; Adam Lane, bass; Todd Capp, drums.
FireFly @ Club Europa from Ophra Wolf on Vimeo.
Hopeless
Hello blog, has it been so long? I am sitting in the studio, my recorder to my left, the lyrics to "The Man I Love" to my right, surrounded by Billie singing the song over and over again. Maybe I can learn to sing by osmosis? Music is a seemingly impossible task. I asked Lorenzo help me transcribe a simple English Folk melody to the recorder for my school project and was in tears in less than three minutes. It is so simple for him: he can SEE the shape of the melody, where as two out of four times I can't figure out if I'm going up or down, or starting in the same place as the last time, for that matter. Hopeless, I am thinking, and yet doing it. SAME WITH YOU, DEAR BLOG, no? And funny that the very thought of how hopeless it all is is what sent me to the keyboard. A little while ago it occurred to me that maybe what I need to do is immerse myself in a music program that will teach me once and for all to master music. But why not do it for dance? It's not as if I've ever mastered dance, certainly certainly not. I am a master of nothing, so maybe I can just relax and stop giving myself an ulcer over the fact that I am not masterful. Lorenzo is, and we are different. Maybe I'm just not the type to be a master of something, maybe in fact I would be a much happier person if I could take more pleasure at how adequate I am at so many things and not worry about not being the greatest at anything.
So reasonable! And yet when Lorenzo enters as I'm typing the last sentence I am knee deep in despair. Or perhaps I am performing desperation: if I can't convince myself that it's hopeless, maybe I can convince him? I'm not even a very good performer: he has me laughing in no time. But lesson learned: kisses and affectionate strokes go much farther towards calming me down than reason.
And now I am upstairs and already a third of the way through the mug of grain coffee I made myself. The camera is connected to the computer, this blog having inspired me to transcribe the video footage from our last gig, and I'm ready to move on to the next project. But I have been thinking that since I spent all that time writing my dad the email I won't be sending him, I should at least post it here. So there is reason to rejoice in the futility of this blog... being at peace that (almost?) nobody reads this, I can print what I like.
Here it is then, a last letter to my father:
Dear David,
I have lingered and postponed writing you this email because I have been at a loss as to how to respond. I was very hurt on discovering that you were in Boston for the holiday and that you neither told me that you would be visiting, nor invited me to join you and your family - a family which for too long now I have continued to call my family, though most of them have treated me as nothing of the sort for over twenty years. I cannot pretend that I am not hurt, and yet in my whole life I have not yet had the experience of you acknowledging that you have ever hurt me.
This leaves me with a horrible dilemma! Because in order to maintain a relationship with you or most other members of your family I must pretend like everything is just fine and in doing so agree to a consensual reality that denies the validity of my feelings, sensations, and intellect - that, in other words, denies my very humanity! Or, I can try to express myself as a thinking, feeling human being and tell you that I am hurt and offended by your actions, with the inevitable consequence of being marked as unstable, perhaps insane, and certainly unworthy. The only way I can walk away from this situation with my heart and soul in tact is to say that it is surely you who is insane, unstable and probably unworthy of my continued attention and energies.
Believe me, it's not my first choice. As you know, I have made great efforts over the years to come to terms with you and to slowly reconstruct a relationship. In fact it is my increased effort in these past months that have led me to realize once and for all that I cannot allow myself to be in a relationship with you in which I must agree to be hurt without any acknowledgment of an offense ever having been made (am I supposed to believe that I deserve it?) and in which I must further hurt myself by subjecting myself to toxic repression and denial. I don't care to be hurt by you any longer, David - I was genuinely surprised at how hurt I felt when I heard about your visit and realized that I must find a way to confront the situation and put a stop to it, even if it means simply removing myself from the line of fire and relieving myself of the need to treat you as a father, which you have not been to me for almost fifteen years.
Even so, I am constantly attempting to be sympathetic to your cause - perhaps acknowledging your capacity to deeply hurt your children would destroy the semblance of normality and prosperity that you have toiled so hard to create for yourself in the past fourteen years? I would challenge you to reflect on the actual extent to which you have hurt us, your children, emotionally, psychologically and at times, physically, but I am aware that such a reflection may drown you in a sorrow from which you will not know how to escape. Better that you don't go there. Your life is good now - you are wealthy, successful in your field, you have good health and a caring partner - what more could you possibly want? Because if it is a relationship with me that you desire, please know that you cannot have one without at least opening up an honest, open dialogue about the very real pain that is at the core of our relations.
Love,
Ophra
...Why won't I send it, you ask? Well, the answer of course is that it's hopeless. And I am starting to be able to take peace in that.
So reasonable! And yet when Lorenzo enters as I'm typing the last sentence I am knee deep in despair. Or perhaps I am performing desperation: if I can't convince myself that it's hopeless, maybe I can convince him? I'm not even a very good performer: he has me laughing in no time. But lesson learned: kisses and affectionate strokes go much farther towards calming me down than reason.
And now I am upstairs and already a third of the way through the mug of grain coffee I made myself. The camera is connected to the computer, this blog having inspired me to transcribe the video footage from our last gig, and I'm ready to move on to the next project. But I have been thinking that since I spent all that time writing my dad the email I won't be sending him, I should at least post it here. So there is reason to rejoice in the futility of this blog... being at peace that (almost?) nobody reads this, I can print what I like.
Here it is then, a last letter to my father:
Dear David,
I have lingered and postponed writing you this email because I have been at a loss as to how to respond. I was very hurt on discovering that you were in Boston for the holiday and that you neither told me that you would be visiting, nor invited me to join you and your family - a family which for too long now I have continued to call my family, though most of them have treated me as nothing of the sort for over twenty years. I cannot pretend that I am not hurt, and yet in my whole life I have not yet had the experience of you acknowledging that you have ever hurt me.
This leaves me with a horrible dilemma! Because in order to maintain a relationship with you or most other members of your family I must pretend like everything is just fine and in doing so agree to a consensual reality that denies the validity of my feelings, sensations, and intellect - that, in other words, denies my very humanity! Or, I can try to express myself as a thinking, feeling human being and tell you that I am hurt and offended by your actions, with the inevitable consequence of being marked as unstable, perhaps insane, and certainly unworthy. The only way I can walk away from this situation with my heart and soul in tact is to say that it is surely you who is insane, unstable and probably unworthy of my continued attention and energies.
Believe me, it's not my first choice. As you know, I have made great efforts over the years to come to terms with you and to slowly reconstruct a relationship. In fact it is my increased effort in these past months that have led me to realize once and for all that I cannot allow myself to be in a relationship with you in which I must agree to be hurt without any acknowledgment of an offense ever having been made (am I supposed to believe that I deserve it?) and in which I must further hurt myself by subjecting myself to toxic repression and denial. I don't care to be hurt by you any longer, David - I was genuinely surprised at how hurt I felt when I heard about your visit and realized that I must find a way to confront the situation and put a stop to it, even if it means simply removing myself from the line of fire and relieving myself of the need to treat you as a father, which you have not been to me for almost fifteen years.
Even so, I am constantly attempting to be sympathetic to your cause - perhaps acknowledging your capacity to deeply hurt your children would destroy the semblance of normality and prosperity that you have toiled so hard to create for yourself in the past fourteen years? I would challenge you to reflect on the actual extent to which you have hurt us, your children, emotionally, psychologically and at times, physically, but I am aware that such a reflection may drown you in a sorrow from which you will not know how to escape. Better that you don't go there. Your life is good now - you are wealthy, successful in your field, you have good health and a caring partner - what more could you possibly want? Because if it is a relationship with me that you desire, please know that you cannot have one without at least opening up an honest, open dialogue about the very real pain that is at the core of our relations.
Love,
Ophra
...Why won't I send it, you ask? Well, the answer of course is that it's hopeless. And I am starting to be able to take peace in that.
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