Jane's performance in the studio on Sunday was beautiful! The crowd was small, only six of us in the audience, but the energy in the space was warm and so fully engaged. It was exciting to see it come together! Jane came over at 5pm with a suitcase of cords, I pulled out our suitcase of cords and we began plugging in and putting up: we hung the projection screen for the first time, Lorenzo built a new shelf for the projector, we were even contemplating going surround sound, but projection problems gorged the remaining set-up time. We put the inspiration we were left with to good use, with a FireFly rehearsal right after the concert into which the projector, max patches and sensors found their way in... Here's a bit of Jane:
Jane Rigler @ PuLsEsTuDiO, 10/12/08 from Ophra Wolf on Vimeo.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
I wish he would fly
A white dove just swooped onto the roof in front of me. The wind is just starting to rustle through the leaves and the grasses again and the moon shines brightly against the light blue sky. Where is that dove now? I wish he would fly again.
Finding Peace
The grasses on the roof turning their Fall colors
I am basking in the early evening light of this beautiful October day. The mosquitos are gorging on my blood. There is so much to do and I can't figure out what the hell I want, except that I want very much to be right here right now, on my beautiful roof taking in the cool air, and I want these fucking mosquitos to leave me alone. Well you can't have everything.
I am not so far away from a conversation with my aunt Debbi. She is here from Haifa, roaming Central Park with cousin Neri, but there is no talk of meeting up. It would be too complicated to confess such a meeting to her family, my dad's side of the family: not my family, they keep pressing the point. So that's that and in fact nothing has changed. But in the end it's Debbi's choice not to see me, and well ok I'm not dying to run out to Times Square to meet them right now either. Hope they enjoy Spamalot and hope that I can move on more and more quickly through this stinking pit in my heart/mind that is my father and his world. Not my world, I keep pressing the point. Who cares about his four houses and young girlfriend, I don't care enough to even complain about the aunts, and the grandparents... well, if they are looking for some kind of peace then they certainly aren't making it easy for themselves.
I, however, do want to make finding peace easier for myself, and so I have entered into serious training. Training is rigorous and involves significant leaps of the mind in those moments in which the mind would most like to stay perched on a high branch with a view like potato chips: addictive, comforting and lacking in nutritional value. In fact it seems clearer than ever that finding peace for myself and sharing what little bits I may find with those around me who are open to receiving is the only worthwhile endeavor I have ever embarked on. Learning how to receive those bits of peace from others is a big lesson I love to learn. It's time for another SWAN Flight discussion, no?
The tomatos are still going strong!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
On to new ones
That's it, I am committed. I pressed the "new post" button and now there is no turning back. Turn down the brightness on the computer screen, yes, acknowledge that this screen has sucked you in for far too many hours today. You could be dancing!!! what are you doing? came up to eat something and make jewelry. So I'm writing, same difference or perhaps more daunting because there is truly so much to write about. It has taken a blog to make me realize how quickly life in this city moves.
How far back shall I go? The very evening of my last post I had not a single person sign up for class. Determined not to take it personally, I decided that the best thing to do would be to go dance. I called Alex on a whim - maybe he wants to jam? Just so happens there is an event at his loft that night, with the possibility of a jam to follow the lecture. I venture to the loft and leave it without dancing: the lecture is dragging on, my body is heavy. But my coming is fortuitous - Alex has been deserted by a couple of other dancers, needs someone to join him for a performance with an Indian dance company that will take place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in two weeks - would I like? Yes is the answer and so the next day I'm back at the loft. We talk and stretch and talk: my body still heavy, has felt immobilized recently. Finally we begin to dance: there is karma between us, I don't understand it yet but clearly it is there. In fact we've both known it was there since we met, and yet it takes me by surprise. I leave feeling like perhaps I'm not a good enough dancer for this gig?
Never mind the insecurities: it is the body I need to attend to. But training pirouettes is not the answer right now and so I allow myself to resign to the reality that I am not a superstar dancer and start asking my body just what needs attending. I am deep in the waters of subtle adjustments, the kind that can change everything: an hour in the studio today following an hour in bed of feeling my jaw and throat shift like they never have before. This is about singing.
Monday! Monday there was no school because of Rosh Hashanah. I tried my best to plan a dinner for Sunday night but couldn't manage to convince myself that I really wanted to do it the day before the holiday: a holiday can't be a holy day if it's celebrated based on convenience. So I canceled work at the gym for Tuesday night and rescheduled with Katy and Ursula.
It is that same Monday that I spend time in the studio working on voice exercises, and bring myself to tears again. Don't know why, it happens when I start to sing "If I should lose you," and it's not because of the lyrics. My neck hurts, my throat hurts, my voice barely comes out and to make things worse I decide to record myself just to prove to myself that it is truly hopeless, this whole singing venture. I am blocked, the block is huge, ancient, I don't know what to do.
Monday was the day that congress turned down the $700 billion handout to Wall Street, but that was not why I was depressed at the Yippie Museum that night. Andrea sang beautifully at the show Lorenzo curated, Patricia said hello and even tried to converse about the Garden show. I ducked: if we began to talk I'd have to mention how irked I was at her maneuver that day. But when she pointed at me to come up and dance at the jam session, following her little solo, my hips locked and refused to move. Can't sing, can't seem to bring myself to dance, so I joke about politics. Monday night was a beautiful night, the few clouds in the sky seemed to huddle above Wall Street and the air in East Village was unusually fresh.
Tuesday I cried again at my lesson with Andrea. On Monday I had tried to convince Lorenzo that I was convinced that I should stop singing, but did a bad job at convincing either one of us. Lorenzo has way too many ideas about me and my singing and probably I should not consult him on the matter at all, but I always turn to him when trying to make things harder for myself. I'm sure I could have indulged myself in this decadent form of self-destructiveness for much longer, except that there was something in the lesson that I did enjoy and then that all too reasonable voice spoke up and suggested that perhaps I was crying because I was actually getting somewhere. My desire to have Andrea take me seriously inspired me to restrain my tears for eight months but the restraining order lapsed and there was nothing to do but go on and deal. So I'm not a superstar singer either, so what.
I sang at the Rosh Hashanah dinner that night just the same. Andrea and Lorenzo were both next to me. Preparing the meal with Lorenzo was wonderful: we worked peacefully and seamlessly. In three hours we had made chickpeas, sweet roots, couscous, two beet salads, radish and cucumber salad, peeled a bowl of pomegranate seeds, and sweetened sesame seeds. I left it to Lorenzo to prepare the fish that Ursula brought. Andrea, Jane, Dawn and Kenny had all decided to come earlier that day. With Katie, Matt and Ursula we were nine. Katie brought a shofar and Lorenzo did his best to open the skies with it. It was a euphoric celebration, a true holiday.
Today, Thursday, is almost over and I am still in front and inside of this computer screen. But the website for the studio is up: !!! : www.pulsestudio.org, and the blog is updated with old adventures, so on to new ones.
How far back shall I go? The very evening of my last post I had not a single person sign up for class. Determined not to take it personally, I decided that the best thing to do would be to go dance. I called Alex on a whim - maybe he wants to jam? Just so happens there is an event at his loft that night, with the possibility of a jam to follow the lecture. I venture to the loft and leave it without dancing: the lecture is dragging on, my body is heavy. But my coming is fortuitous - Alex has been deserted by a couple of other dancers, needs someone to join him for a performance with an Indian dance company that will take place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in two weeks - would I like? Yes is the answer and so the next day I'm back at the loft. We talk and stretch and talk: my body still heavy, has felt immobilized recently. Finally we begin to dance: there is karma between us, I don't understand it yet but clearly it is there. In fact we've both known it was there since we met, and yet it takes me by surprise. I leave feeling like perhaps I'm not a good enough dancer for this gig?
Never mind the insecurities: it is the body I need to attend to. But training pirouettes is not the answer right now and so I allow myself to resign to the reality that I am not a superstar dancer and start asking my body just what needs attending. I am deep in the waters of subtle adjustments, the kind that can change everything: an hour in the studio today following an hour in bed of feeling my jaw and throat shift like they never have before. This is about singing.
Monday! Monday there was no school because of Rosh Hashanah. I tried my best to plan a dinner for Sunday night but couldn't manage to convince myself that I really wanted to do it the day before the holiday: a holiday can't be a holy day if it's celebrated based on convenience. So I canceled work at the gym for Tuesday night and rescheduled with Katy and Ursula.
It is that same Monday that I spend time in the studio working on voice exercises, and bring myself to tears again. Don't know why, it happens when I start to sing "If I should lose you," and it's not because of the lyrics. My neck hurts, my throat hurts, my voice barely comes out and to make things worse I decide to record myself just to prove to myself that it is truly hopeless, this whole singing venture. I am blocked, the block is huge, ancient, I don't know what to do.
Monday was the day that congress turned down the $700 billion handout to Wall Street, but that was not why I was depressed at the Yippie Museum that night. Andrea sang beautifully at the show Lorenzo curated, Patricia said hello and even tried to converse about the Garden show. I ducked: if we began to talk I'd have to mention how irked I was at her maneuver that day. But when she pointed at me to come up and dance at the jam session, following her little solo, my hips locked and refused to move. Can't sing, can't seem to bring myself to dance, so I joke about politics. Monday night was a beautiful night, the few clouds in the sky seemed to huddle above Wall Street and the air in East Village was unusually fresh.
Tuesday I cried again at my lesson with Andrea. On Monday I had tried to convince Lorenzo that I was convinced that I should stop singing, but did a bad job at convincing either one of us. Lorenzo has way too many ideas about me and my singing and probably I should not consult him on the matter at all, but I always turn to him when trying to make things harder for myself. I'm sure I could have indulged myself in this decadent form of self-destructiveness for much longer, except that there was something in the lesson that I did enjoy and then that all too reasonable voice spoke up and suggested that perhaps I was crying because I was actually getting somewhere. My desire to have Andrea take me seriously inspired me to restrain my tears for eight months but the restraining order lapsed and there was nothing to do but go on and deal. So I'm not a superstar singer either, so what.
I sang at the Rosh Hashanah dinner that night just the same. Andrea and Lorenzo were both next to me. Preparing the meal with Lorenzo was wonderful: we worked peacefully and seamlessly. In three hours we had made chickpeas, sweet roots, couscous, two beet salads, radish and cucumber salad, peeled a bowl of pomegranate seeds, and sweetened sesame seeds. I left it to Lorenzo to prepare the fish that Ursula brought. Andrea, Jane, Dawn and Kenny had all decided to come earlier that day. With Katie, Matt and Ursula we were nine. Katie brought a shofar and Lorenzo did his best to open the skies with it. It was a euphoric celebration, a true holiday.
Today, Thursday, is almost over and I am still in front and inside of this computer screen. But the website for the studio is up: !!! : www.pulsestudio.org, and the blog is updated with old adventures, so on to new ones.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My first Max Patch
Amazing, all the double triple checking to make sure everything worked right and still the technology showed me up: I was missing the cord to connect my computer to the projector. In an effort to transfer the files to another computer, the curtains movie was lost, so the patch never lived up to it's full potential, but I am still thrilled with having actually made it. And our presentation went off just fine without it - bless the instinct to put the technology last not first.
The Streams of Hamlet
My vision seems to be stronger and clearer since this morning. Maybe it is the beautiful Fall light. Danica's short Reiki session this morning is also contributing to the sense of clarity. In my eyes, that is - not quite so in regards to my day. Lorenzo has left for the mountains with only a short moment for goodbye. I hope he is safe and that he finds what he's looking for!
If Hamlet is no longer a viable play for our times, as Helen suggests, it is in part because the Ophelia's are no longer interested in committing suicide. Lorenzo is struggling with "to be or not to be" when from my perspective he simply is and frankly that's plenty for me. I love him so and hope he finds his way to a sense of his stature and greatness without too much fretting about who gets to be king. Meanwhile, I have my own path to clear, and though I am longing to drown myself in the stream of the shower head, the prospect of dampening my forward momentum is not one bit romantic.
We'll jump from one stream of Hamlet inspired thought to another. This next one was written in class on Monday night, as part of the assignment given us by the first group to present their Hamlet Machine piece. We were told to write everything we could remember about Hamlet. Later I was asked to speak a line of Ophelia's. I wrote this:
Everything you know about hamlet. Don’t start don’t start until after your line. Your video, dear Hamlet, your video calls to me from another dimension. Oh but it is flat, that dimension from wither it calleth me and I can not immerse myself within. This too too cruel world has imprisoned me on one side of a two dimensional screen and whether the further exists or not is not known.
Hamlet calleth from beyond – the within? The further? Or some other? She the other. She who spills her blood to stain the screen to see if it will seep in. Is there somewhere to seep into? Hit Hit Hit. Not yet further into the into. Prosperously delivered. Prosperously of. Silence. It pauses and continues from afar afar to the printer go. Hamlet is in jail. If so is she free to stand outside and observe? She must enter. Further along … you are as good as a chorus my lord.
If Hamlet is no longer a viable play for our times, as Helen suggests, it is in part because the Ophelia's are no longer interested in committing suicide. Lorenzo is struggling with "to be or not to be" when from my perspective he simply is and frankly that's plenty for me. I love him so and hope he finds his way to a sense of his stature and greatness without too much fretting about who gets to be king. Meanwhile, I have my own path to clear, and though I am longing to drown myself in the stream of the shower head, the prospect of dampening my forward momentum is not one bit romantic.
We'll jump from one stream of Hamlet inspired thought to another. This next one was written in class on Monday night, as part of the assignment given us by the first group to present their Hamlet Machine piece. We were told to write everything we could remember about Hamlet. Later I was asked to speak a line of Ophelia's. I wrote this:
Everything you know about hamlet. Don’t start don’t start until after your line. Your video, dear Hamlet, your video calls to me from another dimension. Oh but it is flat, that dimension from wither it calleth me and I can not immerse myself within. This too too cruel world has imprisoned me on one side of a two dimensional screen and whether the further exists or not is not known.
Hamlet calleth from beyond – the within? The further? Or some other? She the other. She who spills her blood to stain the screen to see if it will seep in. Is there somewhere to seep into? Hit Hit Hit. Not yet further into the into. Prosperously delivered. Prosperously of. Silence. It pauses and continues from afar afar to the printer go. Hamlet is in jail. If so is she free to stand outside and observe? She must enter. Further along … you are as good as a chorus my lord.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Encouragement from the cosmos
I am growing by leaps and bounds. I am sure that my heightened awareness of what seems to be the inevitable impending collapse of this country I live in and perhaps of life as I have known it to be until now is to thank. These days have been greatly informed and inspired by Dimitri Orlov's Reinventing Collapse.
The larger part of today was marked by anxiety. Tears came from nowhere during my voice lesson with Andrea. It is the first time I really cried during a lesson - cried right through two rounds of "If I Should Lose You," but never stopped singing. See what I mean? I'm growing. And for the most part I have been calmer than ever before. It's easy, now that the world outside seems to be catching up to my own state of economic affairs and the myth of god-given upward mobility is dissolving - all I have to do is make just enough so I can keep plugging away at my art, without any pressure of success in the form of recognition or finances.
Finances are truly a bitch, and I am constantly dreaming up new ways to build the business up a little more. Today, post-tears and mid-anxiety, I updated my mailing list, sent an email to my regular students, designed a new flier, photocopied it onto brightly colored paper and cut it into shape. I filled the flier up with the beautiful quotes my students sent me. The excess print is unlike me, with my preference for clean designs, but I found the change exciting and relished the sense of rebellion it gave me: in place of fancy ads and glossy post cards I'm putting out crowded half-pieces of neon colored paper full of the gems of support and good energy my students have bestowed on me.
So I am not without recognition. In fact the recent wave of recognition from my colleagues has lifted me right out of the torrential waters of artistic dead ends and perched me on a little branch just above the roaring flood. Lorenzo is in a different place, perhaps not quite as open to the exhilaration of admiration from our fellow artists and not nearly as used to having his efforts ignored or outright denied. Ah, for once to see that I have benefited from being denied inclusion and awe! Because today I could give a rat's ass if so and so finds me worthy and worthwhile so long as I can keep doing my thing and occasionally feast on the enthusiasm of those colleagues about whose existence I am myself enthusiastic.
Since there doesn't seem to be anywhere big to go anyways, I might as well be clear and honest about where I am right now and not waste my time on trolls who wish to exercise their powerlessness on me. Let them frolic elsewhere, where the myth of "getting somewhere better bigger soon" still thrives and they can sell the shit they poop on you as your only hope for warmth during the long wait for the Gate to open. No, I have turned in my dreams of the land beyond the locked Gate for the infinitely more interesting and challenging task of dealing with the territory at hand. By very virtue of this choice I am having great success, surprising myself to no end at my ability to adjust, juggle and even shape the various struggles I encounter into pleasure and release.
Not all the releases are wonderful. There was a smelly one just today. A fight with my mother, a battle of the vocal cords and a cathartic climax sought out by an outdated program in our psychic systems. I could have just said, sorry I didn't call sooner, Mom. Instead I felt the need to tell the truth, which is that I'd really rather not hear her complaints and criticisms about my behavior, especially on the topic of being close and communicative. Unless of course her intention was to really communicate, but since she is caught up with her finances, the ones I'm not supposed to know or talk about, that was not actually an option. Anyways, that's one truth. Another is that we are both stressed out, swimming in the tension of the world around us, and practicing a stroke we know all too well: blame it all on HER behavior.
There is more, more! But it is already late, late. Max patches, group presentations, garden politics: I'm taking them on and knocking them out with my brazen insistence on doing it my way. Rob Brezsny inspired tonight's garden breakthrough with this advice "You will receive encouragement from the cosmos whenever you seek out and express facts that disprove prevailing biases and mistaken beliefs."
The larger part of today was marked by anxiety. Tears came from nowhere during my voice lesson with Andrea. It is the first time I really cried during a lesson - cried right through two rounds of "If I Should Lose You," but never stopped singing. See what I mean? I'm growing. And for the most part I have been calmer than ever before. It's easy, now that the world outside seems to be catching up to my own state of economic affairs and the myth of god-given upward mobility is dissolving - all I have to do is make just enough so I can keep plugging away at my art, without any pressure of success in the form of recognition or finances.
Finances are truly a bitch, and I am constantly dreaming up new ways to build the business up a little more. Today, post-tears and mid-anxiety, I updated my mailing list, sent an email to my regular students, designed a new flier, photocopied it onto brightly colored paper and cut it into shape. I filled the flier up with the beautiful quotes my students sent me. The excess print is unlike me, with my preference for clean designs, but I found the change exciting and relished the sense of rebellion it gave me: in place of fancy ads and glossy post cards I'm putting out crowded half-pieces of neon colored paper full of the gems of support and good energy my students have bestowed on me.
So I am not without recognition. In fact the recent wave of recognition from my colleagues has lifted me right out of the torrential waters of artistic dead ends and perched me on a little branch just above the roaring flood. Lorenzo is in a different place, perhaps not quite as open to the exhilaration of admiration from our fellow artists and not nearly as used to having his efforts ignored or outright denied. Ah, for once to see that I have benefited from being denied inclusion and awe! Because today I could give a rat's ass if so and so finds me worthy and worthwhile so long as I can keep doing my thing and occasionally feast on the enthusiasm of those colleagues about whose existence I am myself enthusiastic.
Since there doesn't seem to be anywhere big to go anyways, I might as well be clear and honest about where I am right now and not waste my time on trolls who wish to exercise their powerlessness on me. Let them frolic elsewhere, where the myth of "getting somewhere better bigger soon" still thrives and they can sell the shit they poop on you as your only hope for warmth during the long wait for the Gate to open. No, I have turned in my dreams of the land beyond the locked Gate for the infinitely more interesting and challenging task of dealing with the territory at hand. By very virtue of this choice I am having great success, surprising myself to no end at my ability to adjust, juggle and even shape the various struggles I encounter into pleasure and release.
Not all the releases are wonderful. There was a smelly one just today. A fight with my mother, a battle of the vocal cords and a cathartic climax sought out by an outdated program in our psychic systems. I could have just said, sorry I didn't call sooner, Mom. Instead I felt the need to tell the truth, which is that I'd really rather not hear her complaints and criticisms about my behavior, especially on the topic of being close and communicative. Unless of course her intention was to really communicate, but since she is caught up with her finances, the ones I'm not supposed to know or talk about, that was not actually an option. Anyways, that's one truth. Another is that we are both stressed out, swimming in the tension of the world around us, and practicing a stroke we know all too well: blame it all on HER behavior.
There is more, more! But it is already late, late. Max patches, group presentations, garden politics: I'm taking them on and knocking them out with my brazen insistence on doing it my way. Rob Brezsny inspired tonight's garden breakthrough with this advice "You will receive encouragement from the cosmos whenever you seek out and express facts that disprove prevailing biases and mistaken beliefs."
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