through watery light
and bubbles floating away
horizon peers down
evaporation
watering can to dry soil
last sips on your lips
empty sleeve hanging
don't let him see me searching
for what is missing
purpose diluted
by words that spread thin feeling
digging for the still
my eyes dig the sky
where beneath the blue is gray
and where is the rain
the clouds grow bigger
while within warm container
I evaporate
quickly plug the holes
all my hands are full you see
while I pour out into space
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
2013 On The Way Out
Everything just sucks!
I know you already this, but you may have forgotten amidst the New Year's Excitement.
I didn't.
Let's go back a few weeks. So after finishing 2.5 years of grad school (waste of time and money) I went with my wife to Orr Hot Springs...for just one day! We didn't even stay the night, so I spent as much time driving as soaking in rich, refreshing mineral water.
But wait, let's rewind.
In 2012 I spent the entire October AND December being sick. It was the second of 3 years where I was sick over New Years Eve...coincidently the same years the Giants won the World Series. Anyway, I have been really careful not to get sick all of 2013. And I made it a year!
I work with old people and little kids and I didn't get sick all year. Amazing!
But then my wife gets sick. And then, after a few weeks, I do. But I did everything right! I don't touch my eyes ever, I gargle Listerine for 30 seconds like 3 times a day, and I never, ever do anything fun. But I still got sick. (stomps on floor)
The good news: At Orr Hot Springs I got all better. 100%! Great! No more snot. Cool! Time to drive!
A few days later just in time for Christmas, my nose and throat are all itchy. But I just want to have a nice Christmas with my family! (stomps floor)
Then, just when I am feeling better, my throat gets all sore. Like so sore I can barely swallow, and I feel all tired and get the chills. Some vacation this is. I wish I was dead!
Then, as I am hoping I will all better for The biggest New Years Eve Party EVER, I make dinner for my wife and I. I get the salmon ready, put it in the oven, wash my hands, get the squash ready. Cool.
A few hours later I am feeling a little weird. You okay honey? She is. The feeling isn't going away. We watch some stuff on Netflix, and I get the irresistible urge to watch The Family Guy Scene where they all throw up. Why did I want to see this? I guess I was feeling weird and thought of it. But maybe I was like a dog who has an upset stomach and goes outback and eats grass to induce vomiting. Just as the clip ended I ran into the bathroom and closed the door.
I lifted the toilet seat and leaned forward, ready to, most likely, throw up dinner. What happened next makes "throwing up" seem like an understatement. My body rolled like the dance move called a body roll. My belly came down, then my chest then my head. A sharp pain pinched my upper back and projectile vomited hard into the toilet. I yelled as I did it. It hurt terribly. After about 5 or 6 of these amazingly painful fits, my diced dinner was floating int he toilet and I watch catching my breath. My head was a little light and My skin had broken into a hot, then cold sweat. I wiped up what had missed, gargled some mouthwash and came back to bed.
We watched some of The New Girl. I was feeling good, but this wasn't to last. I began to feel odd again, slightly nauseous, then more so, and ran into the bathroom for yet another projectile, yelling, back pinching, vomit. This time my temperature was extremely hot/cold, and I had unfortunately missed much of the toilet. I felt dizzy as most of my food for the day and any recent water was gone. "I'm sorry honey, I can't clean this up." I muttered as I swished some mouthwash and got back in bed, this time feeling a headache coming on.
My wife had been very supportive so far. Asking if I was okay while I yelled out in pain, asking if I needed anything, saying I didn't look so good. But then she looked into the bathroom. whatever she had expected, this was far, far worse. Besides the toilet, floor, and bathmat, I had left my slippers and pants, both of which were now soiled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I muttered from my warm bed.
She closed the bathroom door and went into the living room. She paced back and forth, her hand on her chin. She soon came to the threshold of the bedroom. Apparently the expansive vomit had turned her brain to mush.
"Um, how do I..." she began.
"Get a towel, mop it up most of it. Throw away the towel. Spray with the cleaner and wipe down." I'd already figured it out. Apparently controlling my body was as impossible as stopping my mind from running over endless scenarios of cleaning in the span of thirty seconds.
Thus is the tale of the first two explosive projectile vomits. There would be a few more, some charcoal pills to calm my stomach, some small attempts at meals and drinking, all of which came out undigested...from somewhere or another...over the next 24 hours.
"Oh, you had a 24 hours bug," everyone says with authority, just before walking outside, pointing to the sky and saying "sun"
Thanks for nothing, friends!
Then as I got better, my sickness came back. Like it was just waiting for the bigger, tougher bully to leave before coming back with the same old snot.
YEAR OF THE HORSE BEGINS!
But I got better. Then the rest of 2014 (before the year of the horse began) was terrible, but somehow we all survived so I'm feeling good. My 36th year and 4th horse year have been pretty good so far. But I'll always remember that fateful day where I threw up 4 times and sharted twice.
I know you already this, but you may have forgotten amidst the New Year's Excitement.
I didn't.
Let's go back a few weeks. So after finishing 2.5 years of grad school (waste of time and money) I went with my wife to Orr Hot Springs...for just one day! We didn't even stay the night, so I spent as much time driving as soaking in rich, refreshing mineral water.
But wait, let's rewind.
In 2012 I spent the entire October AND December being sick. It was the second of 3 years where I was sick over New Years Eve...coincidently the same years the Giants won the World Series. Anyway, I have been really careful not to get sick all of 2013. And I made it a year!
I work with old people and little kids and I didn't get sick all year. Amazing!
But then my wife gets sick. And then, after a few weeks, I do. But I did everything right! I don't touch my eyes ever, I gargle Listerine for 30 seconds like 3 times a day, and I never, ever do anything fun. But I still got sick. (stomps on floor)
The good news: At Orr Hot Springs I got all better. 100%! Great! No more snot. Cool! Time to drive!
A few days later just in time for Christmas, my nose and throat are all itchy. But I just want to have a nice Christmas with my family! (stomps floor)
Then, just when I am feeling better, my throat gets all sore. Like so sore I can barely swallow, and I feel all tired and get the chills. Some vacation this is. I wish I was dead!
Then, as I am hoping I will all better for The biggest New Years Eve Party EVER, I make dinner for my wife and I. I get the salmon ready, put it in the oven, wash my hands, get the squash ready. Cool.
A few hours later I am feeling a little weird. You okay honey? She is. The feeling isn't going away. We watch some stuff on Netflix, and I get the irresistible urge to watch The Family Guy Scene where they all throw up. Why did I want to see this? I guess I was feeling weird and thought of it. But maybe I was like a dog who has an upset stomach and goes outback and eats grass to induce vomiting. Just as the clip ended I ran into the bathroom and closed the door.
I lifted the toilet seat and leaned forward, ready to, most likely, throw up dinner. What happened next makes "throwing up" seem like an understatement. My body rolled like the dance move called a body roll. My belly came down, then my chest then my head. A sharp pain pinched my upper back and projectile vomited hard into the toilet. I yelled as I did it. It hurt terribly. After about 5 or 6 of these amazingly painful fits, my diced dinner was floating int he toilet and I watch catching my breath. My head was a little light and My skin had broken into a hot, then cold sweat. I wiped up what had missed, gargled some mouthwash and came back to bed.
We watched some of The New Girl. I was feeling good, but this wasn't to last. I began to feel odd again, slightly nauseous, then more so, and ran into the bathroom for yet another projectile, yelling, back pinching, vomit. This time my temperature was extremely hot/cold, and I had unfortunately missed much of the toilet. I felt dizzy as most of my food for the day and any recent water was gone. "I'm sorry honey, I can't clean this up." I muttered as I swished some mouthwash and got back in bed, this time feeling a headache coming on.
My wife had been very supportive so far. Asking if I was okay while I yelled out in pain, asking if I needed anything, saying I didn't look so good. But then she looked into the bathroom. whatever she had expected, this was far, far worse. Besides the toilet, floor, and bathmat, I had left my slippers and pants, both of which were now soiled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I muttered from my warm bed.
She closed the bathroom door and went into the living room. She paced back and forth, her hand on her chin. She soon came to the threshold of the bedroom. Apparently the expansive vomit had turned her brain to mush.
"Um, how do I..." she began.
"Get a towel, mop it up most of it. Throw away the towel. Spray with the cleaner and wipe down." I'd already figured it out. Apparently controlling my body was as impossible as stopping my mind from running over endless scenarios of cleaning in the span of thirty seconds.
Thus is the tale of the first two explosive projectile vomits. There would be a few more, some charcoal pills to calm my stomach, some small attempts at meals and drinking, all of which came out undigested...from somewhere or another...over the next 24 hours.
"Oh, you had a 24 hours bug," everyone says with authority, just before walking outside, pointing to the sky and saying "sun"
Thanks for nothing, friends!
Then as I got better, my sickness came back. Like it was just waiting for the bigger, tougher bully to leave before coming back with the same old snot.
YEAR OF THE HORSE BEGINS!
But I got better. Then the rest of 2014 (before the year of the horse began) was terrible, but somehow we all survived so I'm feeling good. My 36th year and 4th horse year have been pretty good so far. But I'll always remember that fateful day where I threw up 4 times and sharted twice.
Haikus 6: Shadows Ground
so much of these steps
I've already forgotten
when I can look back
their lives warm chaos
sifting into my two ears
finally frozen
walk below storm clouds
thunder rolls over my skin
lighting forgotten
changing ground shadows
the higher sun in the sky
every day I'm growing
the need to make lists
beneath the naming panic
air filled with algae
walking sand filled shoes
so far from the horizon
wind blowing through cloak
the walls closing in
whats not working is me
when will roof topple
every word cuts through
every stone falls where I stand
every distance gone
why shake fist at cloud
it has stopped raining they say
but we are all wet
I've already forgotten
when I can look back
their lives warm chaos
sifting into my two ears
finally frozen
walk below storm clouds
thunder rolls over my skin
lighting forgotten
changing ground shadows
the higher sun in the sky
every day I'm growing
the need to make lists
beneath the naming panic
air filled with algae
walking sand filled shoes
so far from the horizon
wind blowing through cloak
the walls closing in
whats not working is me
when will roof topple
every word cuts through
every stone falls where I stand
every distance gone
why shake fist at cloud
it has stopped raining they say
but we are all wet
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Theft
As 2013 draws to a close I am thinking about how my creativity will flourish in 2014.
It's time to steal!
I was recently gifted(though it was actually given to my wife)...and I am not really sure who gave it to her(us). I will just say that it was contentious amongst the givers who was giving and who was receiving. But that's okay because the book was called Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon.
In a side note he moved to Austin. My friend LA moved to LA. Names can influence jobs too!
The gist of the book is that nothing is original, and that a good artist steals from many things rather than one, and mashes them all together into their own creative smoothie. Then the book gives ways to stay creative and productive. It also says when people give advice it is really to their younger selves, so maybe this distant boom is for past Dan.
Dear Past Dan,
Hey Dan! I guess it's not too far in the past or you would be Daniel, but in middle school you were so uncool the one thing you could do was go by your nickname to try to turn things around. How it that working out for you?
Past Dan: That's funny! I'm actually writing a letter to Daniel, me at 6 years old. I'm telling him to stop peeing the bed and to not be OCD. What a weirdo!
Present Dan: I know, right! (Past and Present Dan high five) Well, stop for a second and listen up,
Keep writing. Keep being creative. It all connects. You're not going to get famous by writing 3 novels and never finishing them. All your passions connect. Create alone and with other people. Don't be in box. You can be a serious writer and be a silly clown and be manly and also be emotional. And all of this can be apparent at the same time. You aren't a great rapper but you are pretty funny. Lonely Island is gonna be famous before you anyway. And that haircut when you part your hair down the middle: not working. The short blonde goatee: not working. You can barely see it, so just blends with your face and makes your jaw look kinda pixelated. Bring coolant on your road trips and enjoy your friends and family, Bindlestiff, and anything you love. It won't all be there by the time I write this. And be nice to little Daniel in the letter!
Love,
Present Dan (2013)
PS: In the future, you can talk to your letters and they can talk back.
So anyway...2013...I did some good stuff. I finished grad school, wrote 100 pages of a novel, and feel my life is a little more balanced with friends and family than a year ago. I'm also still struggling with social anxiety and how to be the best Dan I can be. Oh, what's this? A silver envelope with my name flashing on the cover! Let's open it....
Dear Past(2013) Dan,
Hello Dan. This is your Future Self, The actually Present Dan(2023). I'm 45! I wanted to say to be nice to yourself, and all your past selves. They are just doing the best they can, and so are you, and don't deserve to be insulted. Sure they seem silly now, and you seem silly to me, but so what? What is so bad about you, or anyone? In the future we don't lament these things. There's not enough food and water and cable shows, but we all moved to the moon where I'm REALLY good at basketball.
When you steal ideas and use them, do it with love. Do everything with love. I don't mean in a cheesy way(whatever that means...we use different slang now) I mean it in a respectful way. Don't just culturally appropriate, but learn from and use for the world. It's a slippery slope, but at least you're not on the moon and don't need to keep tumbling down it for 30 miles, and you lost control and shat your suit, and then you were stuck with that smell while you waited for a rescue crew...for 3 hours!!!!!!!!
Well, I've got to go watch myself on TV. Yeah, it's the new Reality show, where we watch a show of cameras that follows you around. My favorite camera is the one in my throat so I can see my food after it comes into my mouth. Let's see what I'm doing. Oh, I'm writing a letter. Now I'm taking it to my building's time travel mailbox. I don't have my own yet, but don't judge me I'm saving up for one, so I can send letters to the past at all hours of the day. Oh look it's a letter from my future....it says..."don't waste money on a personal time travel mailbox. Just walk down the hall." but if I sent this from my own mailbox, and I don't get it, then that means...(time travel paradox implodes the universe. Nothing is left but this moment)
Love,
D. Joseph Weil (in the future we always use our first initial. And I know you're wondering how I signed the letter but get over it)
It's time to steal!
I was recently gifted(though it was actually given to my wife)...and I am not really sure who gave it to her(us). I will just say that it was contentious amongst the givers who was giving and who was receiving. But that's okay because the book was called Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon.
In a side note he moved to Austin. My friend LA moved to LA. Names can influence jobs too!
The gist of the book is that nothing is original, and that a good artist steals from many things rather than one, and mashes them all together into their own creative smoothie. Then the book gives ways to stay creative and productive. It also says when people give advice it is really to their younger selves, so maybe this distant boom is for past Dan.
Dear Past Dan,
Hey Dan! I guess it's not too far in the past or you would be Daniel, but in middle school you were so uncool the one thing you could do was go by your nickname to try to turn things around. How it that working out for you?
Past Dan: That's funny! I'm actually writing a letter to Daniel, me at 6 years old. I'm telling him to stop peeing the bed and to not be OCD. What a weirdo!
Present Dan: I know, right! (Past and Present Dan high five) Well, stop for a second and listen up,
Keep writing. Keep being creative. It all connects. You're not going to get famous by writing 3 novels and never finishing them. All your passions connect. Create alone and with other people. Don't be in box. You can be a serious writer and be a silly clown and be manly and also be emotional. And all of this can be apparent at the same time. You aren't a great rapper but you are pretty funny. Lonely Island is gonna be famous before you anyway. And that haircut when you part your hair down the middle: not working. The short blonde goatee: not working. You can barely see it, so just blends with your face and makes your jaw look kinda pixelated. Bring coolant on your road trips and enjoy your friends and family, Bindlestiff, and anything you love. It won't all be there by the time I write this. And be nice to little Daniel in the letter!
Love,
Present Dan (2013)
PS: In the future, you can talk to your letters and they can talk back.
So anyway...2013...I did some good stuff. I finished grad school, wrote 100 pages of a novel, and feel my life is a little more balanced with friends and family than a year ago. I'm also still struggling with social anxiety and how to be the best Dan I can be. Oh, what's this? A silver envelope with my name flashing on the cover! Let's open it....
Dear Past(2013) Dan,
Hello Dan. This is your Future Self, The actually Present Dan(2023). I'm 45! I wanted to say to be nice to yourself, and all your past selves. They are just doing the best they can, and so are you, and don't deserve to be insulted. Sure they seem silly now, and you seem silly to me, but so what? What is so bad about you, or anyone? In the future we don't lament these things. There's not enough food and water and cable shows, but we all moved to the moon where I'm REALLY good at basketball.
When you steal ideas and use them, do it with love. Do everything with love. I don't mean in a cheesy way(whatever that means...we use different slang now) I mean it in a respectful way. Don't just culturally appropriate, but learn from and use for the world. It's a slippery slope, but at least you're not on the moon and don't need to keep tumbling down it for 30 miles, and you lost control and shat your suit, and then you were stuck with that smell while you waited for a rescue crew...for 3 hours!!!!!!!!
Well, I've got to go watch myself on TV. Yeah, it's the new Reality show, where we watch a show of cameras that follows you around. My favorite camera is the one in my throat so I can see my food after it comes into my mouth. Let's see what I'm doing. Oh, I'm writing a letter. Now I'm taking it to my building's time travel mailbox. I don't have my own yet, but don't judge me I'm saving up for one, so I can send letters to the past at all hours of the day. Oh look it's a letter from my future....it says..."don't waste money on a personal time travel mailbox. Just walk down the hall." but if I sent this from my own mailbox, and I don't get it, then that means...(time travel paradox implodes the universe. Nothing is left but this moment)
Love,
D. Joseph Weil (in the future we always use our first initial. And I know you're wondering how I signed the letter but get over it)
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Neptune
In a far away country
as foreign as Neptune
there is a trailer
left to rest on a cliff above the ocean
Some days it is a green hill
some days gold and dry
with laundry blowing in the sun's breeze.
A black and white lady
snores luxuriously in the sun
even as her eyes are clouding over
She won't notice what she loses in time
only what she has.
Somewhere nearby
Iron & Wine is playing and
two people are falling in love.
The country is long gone
as is the trailer
and the black and white lady
They have swam back out into the sea.
Here on the coast
two people are falling in love
as foreign as Neptune
there is a trailer
left to rest on a cliff above the ocean
Some days it is a green hill
some days gold and dry
with laundry blowing in the sun's breeze.
A black and white lady
snores luxuriously in the sun
even as her eyes are clouding over
She won't notice what she loses in time
only what she has.
Somewhere nearby
Iron & Wine is playing and
two people are falling in love.
The country is long gone
as is the trailer
and the black and white lady
They have swam back out into the sea.
Here on the coast
two people are falling in love
Friday, June 28, 2013
Yep, More Haikus
take a long look out
squint your eye at the horizon
eyelash fuzziness
madness trickeld down
but he stayed dry under a rock
and then down it fell
birth a cymbal crash
that echoes then it fades
echoes hear nothing
sand in fingernails
blow through the grooves of my brain
mind is a sandstorm
the pain and the cure
two different sides of the coin
blurring the air
pinhole of feeling
spin out through the galaxy
we are all star stuff
please please stop talking
your words don't mean anything
can we please just move
oh shit that's my life
concreting the mountains
story is the same
fathers and sons alway
why do I keep looking through leaves
crouched in the same tree
through the windows glass
sun, wind and viruses dance
sick boy now sick man
music and laughter
bouncing ball the floor the wall
smile in dappled leaves
castles made of sand
fall away like a close shave
feel air when no wind
squint your eye at the horizon
eyelash fuzziness
madness trickeld down
but he stayed dry under a rock
and then down it fell
birth a cymbal crash
that echoes then it fades
echoes hear nothing
sand in fingernails
blow through the grooves of my brain
mind is a sandstorm
the pain and the cure
two different sides of the coin
blurring the air
pinhole of feeling
spin out through the galaxy
we are all star stuff
please please stop talking
your words don't mean anything
can we please just move
oh shit that's my life
concreting the mountains
story is the same
fathers and sons alway
why do I keep looking through leaves
crouched in the same tree
through the windows glass
sun, wind and viruses dance
sick boy now sick man
music and laughter
bouncing ball the floor the wall
smile in dappled leaves
castles made of sand
fall away like a close shave
feel air when no wind
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Haikus 4 and Beyond
sunshine the burn shine
bright new shoes for the jingle
barefoot still you stare
leaf shiver raindrop
threatened by the fall to dirt
taken by the sun
the tables with food
turned away from the wanting
mirrors divide spoils
desert throat looking
for moist air from mountain trees
fed by rotting soul
the spirit of the times
floating over our faces
masks upon the mask
(this next little poem was written without normal grammar. It was during a training or something and I tried to just let the words g to me, brought by the previous word and my mood but not by literal meaning. It was fun!)
when the breaking is for leaving
containing the fall
stand still in blown
sad slice epidermal
squirrel instantly beneath
Dan Updates:
MUSIC:
We (Beat Salad ) have got 5 songs now!
Performing in Sebastopol on June 8 at the Hopmonk!
No summer break! Aaaaa. Full throttle til about a month off in August, then back for my final semester!
Writing:
I am working on a story. Been trying to write every day in 2013, but hasn't always happened. I am getting back into it. I have a story up over 30 pages right now and is going well. Not really ready to post yet, but includes some old and new(to me) themes: Parents, memory, talking cats, death, dementia, immigration, therapy, anxiety. Working title: The Dark Side Of The Moon.
Monday, December 24, 2012
The Next Big Thing
Big Thanks to Shannon Lee L. Pacaoan for tagging me in her Next Big Thing post. The Next Big Thing is a network that allow writers the opportunity to share a completed project or work-in-progress by answering a set of questions. Today, I’ve decided to share about my music!
I first fell in love with rap music as a teenager and never really stopped. The genre helped me get to know and accept people unlike myself. Please tell the right wing media I never emulated gangsta rap or became violent. Instead I thought and thought about poor people, black people, men, women, and my effect on them and their effect on me.
Chrystene Ells
Where did the idea come from for the book?
Since I have been super busy with Drama Therapy school at CIIS, I haven't had time to work on any of my 3 unfinished novels. But I have been working on making comedic and socially conscious hip hop music. I know that makes me sound like a d-bag, but that's okay. What can I do? Anyhoo, my good friend Mark and I have been been making music under the moniker Beat Salad . So far we've only posted a fake diss song on our folk singing banjo playing friend Kelly McFarling for "dissing" New York, and an homage to the radio show Radio Lab. We've got lots of stuff in the pipe line. Some battle raps, a song about garbage, the elusive meaning of hip hop and the meaning of life. You know, regular topic for rap songs.
Where Did The Idea Come From For Your Book?
I first fell in love with rap music as a teenager and never really stopped. The genre helped me get to know and accept people unlike myself. Please tell the right wing media I never emulated gangsta rap or became violent. Instead I thought and thought about poor people, black people, men, women, and my effect on them and their effect on me.
What genre does your book fall under?
Definitely rap! I don't take thing too seriously so we have lots of funny songs, some social commentary, and some stories.
What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
Andy Samberg, Jon Krasinski, or Tina Fey.
What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?
Hip hop smoothed out on the comedy tip with an electronic feel appeal to it.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
We haven't posted anything in awhile but lots of things in the pipeline. 2 songs in 2 years? Yes. 8 more songs this year? Possibly.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
2pac, Lonely Island, and 90's hip hop.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
We have fun, love 90's music, and I reference Toni Morrison sometimes.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
self produced.
My 5 writers for next Wednesday are writers as well as filmakers, artists, houselovers, and travelers:
Chrystene Ells
Jessica Harvey-Taylor
Jen Amenti
Samantha Chanse
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Haikus 3
the pain of the mask
the echo beneath the smile
the eye of the storm
you are just so cute
you remind me of grandma
countertransference!
a quake of the mind
the family becomes ripples
love becomes sirens
sand stuck wet eyelid
the air far away blowing
the weight pressing down
brains connects through breath
invisible wind blows leaves
far apart we blink
I am caregiver
I watch the water run low
memory dried out
acceptance me, you
the problem is the echo
because I listen
sentences eclipsed
end with raindrop ellipses
breadcrumbs in the woods
always forgetting
stream rushes over the bank
hands full of wet earth
modeling the sky
your double here from the past
lets laugh for awhile
raindrop never forms
never hits the forest floor
it's always falling
lost under the sea
swimming toward the next bubble
here in the moment
construct deconstruct
the pendulum swings here there
then deconstruction
wow they are so smart
those white men those white men now dead
where did they get off
lost under the sea
swimming toward the next bubble
here in the moment
construct deconstruct
the pendulum swings here there
then deconstruction
wow they are so smart
those white men those white men now dead
where did they get off
birth a dream a myth
a mountain shadow reaching
death late afternoon
body holds the scream
long after the sound fades away
the ears keep ringing
3 year-old alone
except for little brother
wandering streets small
becoming even then
archaic as the icebox
holding back the change
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Haikus 2
flashing water light
flame within the dark ceiling
it's always midnight
waterfall of wine
sidewalk footfalls alleyway
echoing my name
the word cigarette
summertime and letting go
hungry before the bell
looking up the ground
just let me follow you down
deeper to the sound
houses upon houses
laid out dead logs after
the fire has burned out
away the river
always seems to run away
try to turn around
sand paper beat heart
drum within the ear
ring clear as a bell
wind puppet green grass
shivering shades together
remembering loss
my fecal matters
interest no one but myself
and the mirror man
stop the thought trigger
let the stream flow all around
eyes open when dry
raindrop never forms
never hits the forest floor
its always falling
birth, a dream, a myth
a mountain shadow reaching
death, late afternoon
body holds the scream
long after the sound fades away
the ears keep ringing
flame within the dark ceiling
it's always midnight
waterfall of wine
sidewalk footfalls alleyway
echoing my name
the word cigarette
summertime and letting go
hungry before the bell
looking up the ground
just let me follow you down
deeper to the sound
houses upon houses
laid out dead logs after
the fire has burned out
away the river
always seems to run away
try to turn around
sand paper beat heart
drum within the ear
ring clear as a bell
wind puppet green grass
shivering shades together
remembering loss
my fecal matters
interest no one but myself
and the mirror man
stop the thought trigger
let the stream flow all around
eyes open when dry
raindrop never forms
never hits the forest floor
its always falling
birth, a dream, a myth
a mountain shadow reaching
death, late afternoon
body holds the scream
long after the sound fades away
the ears keep ringing
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Haikus
I haven't been able to do much writing lately, but I did get inspired by a writing class to do a bunch of haikus. Most of them are an attempt to distill my entire day into a few lines, using a nature metaphor.
the sky is falling
I am nowhere to be seen
looking up through glass
the monkey boys climbs
his thoughts rain never captured
by nurturing leaf
falling until death
whistling through wind and light
never to be grasped
sleep avoids my eyes
world turning below my feet
the clown stirs again
back in the hot room
words scratch like the sabertooth
finally freedom
my time with children
teaches child therapy
better than the class
day one of many
grains of sand make a desert
digging I'm thirsty
wind blows healing
inhale deeply my stomach
filling my pain
sand upon more sand
buried by fear without air
there can be no scream
my tightened center
why oh why am I hurting
water seeps over
the lovely billows
rising out above my head
begin to let go
quitting is easy
as holding my breath inside
stay quit or exhale
to another place
birds flying above the beat
my heart fills again
and like a cliche
the train pulls away from you
I only have me
the sky is falling
I am nowhere to be seen
looking up through glass
the monkey boys climbs
his thoughts rain never captured
by nurturing leaf
falling until death
whistling through wind and light
never to be grasped
sleep avoids my eyes
world turning below my feet
the clown stirs again
back in the hot room
words scratch like the sabertooth
finally freedom
my time with children
teaches child therapy
better than the class
day one of many
grains of sand make a desert
digging I'm thirsty
wind blows healing
inhale deeply my stomach
filling my pain
sand upon more sand
buried by fear without air
there can be no scream
my tightened center
why oh why am I hurting
water seeps over
the lovely billows
rising out above my head
begin to let go
quitting is easy
as holding my breath inside
stay quit or exhale
to another place
birds flying above the beat
my heart fills again
and like a cliche
the train pulls away from you
I only have me
Friday, February 10, 2012
John Lennon
I won’t deny the Beatle’s creativity or impact, or sheer breath of music. Come on! I also know it would be silly to say that John Lennon could exist, as we knew him, without the Beatles. I am raising the question to bring your eyes to what Lennon did do, and what went beyond the Beatles in many ways, songs that the Beatles could never have done. This isn’t to say there aren’t lots of ways the Beatles reaches heights Lennon couldn’t replicate on his own, how could anyone, but that there are new things he did on his own.
I've been wanting to write this for awhile but have been busy with school, so I'm kind of rushing this out, and maybe I'll come back to it someday. Enjoy.
Here are 5 songs, I would call them great songs, that represent Lennon blowing the Beatles out of the water.
Okay, I'll start with the obvious one we all know. And maybe the Beatles would have done this song. They did have a bunch of songs about love and peace, but this song asks to to Imagine if all these things were true, just to stop for a minute, stop lamenting it and despairing it's not true, but to just stop and Imagine we were right here in the present, without ideologies that tear us apart. Forget the cheesy part, think about that we take for granted things like countries and religions and possessions, just think about a little bit. There are elements of Imagine in each of the next 4 songs on the list. This song must have influenced Michael Jackson's Man In The Mirror which continues the imagining to action on oneself.
This is one of the most devastatingly personal songs I've ever heard, and this video of photographs fits it's tempo perfectly. Lennon seems not just to be remembering the loss of his mother at a young age, but to simultaneously the boy and the young man. As Arcade Fire says in Wake Up, "children don't grow up our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up." And that wailing at the end? You'll never hear that kind of intensity from Paul.
Anyone still wondering if John Lennon has some extremely leftist viewpoints? This song, sounds like a an add for communism, as many folk songs have since Woody Guthrie. Yet something about the song makes me feel that this is done ironically.
Wait! Don't click on this video if you are sensitive! There are many images from around the world that are depressing to say the least. But click if you can. This song goes beyond simply imaging to actually having a chorus of children singing "War is Over." This song hurts so much, because it isn't true, but that's the point. What if it was? Somehow the imagining of it become more real because it doesn't say "imagine war is over" but simply "war is over." It's like someone with Alzheimer's thinking they are young and healthy again, and you are watching their joy and knowing that sooner or later they will realize it's not true. That's what this song feels like. The images in the video remind us of the cost of it being a fantasy.
Regardless of your beliefs, Lennon's exploration of his own is fascinating. From "God is a concept by which we measure our pain" to hearing Lennon's list of all the things he doesn't believe in go from universal to extremely specific and personal, this song is really about the religion of the Beatles and his refusal to be, or see anyone as, it's Christ.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Guilt List
Ever noticed you feel bad about something but keep doing it? Maybe it’s an addiction to a substance like drugs or alcohol. Maybe it’s to an activity or a person. Maybe it’s buying products that support the mistreatment of animals or farmers or children. Could be using too much unsustainable energy by turning on the heat or driving your car too much. Sure, you might not stop doing it, but isn’t it important to be aware? But why would anyone want to be aware, it it makes us feel so bad.
The guilt list is my project to list and be more aware of the things I do that I feel bad about. My goal is not to stop doing all of these, or to make everyone else stop, but to simply own an accept my actions. Maybe I’ll come to terms with things that unconsciously bother me, and I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll feel worse, but at least I’ll be looking in the mirror. One thing I do hope to do, is to look at the things I judge other people for, and to find something I do that is almost the same, but I just didn’t realize it.
Here are some examples that I’ve been thinking about recently:
- Using animal products when the animals are mostly likely mistreated. Sure I’m usually vegetarian, but dairy leads to cows being impregnated by a machine, than separated from their calves immediately upon birth. The calves are then slaughtered and another machine sucks the cows milk for a year or so, then the process repeats. Am I cool with that? I don’t know, but I’m super cool with laughing cow cheese and Trader Joe’s New Zealand cheddar. And cow shit makes more pollution than cars, so I should be staying away from anything related right? It sure is hard to get sweet leather free shoes though.
- Using too much unsustainable energy. Do I really ever need to use the dryer? But damn do I hate having my clothes hanging up all over the house if it’s cold outside. And what about all my driving? It saves soooo much time, and I’m not gonna live forever.
- Buying to many things with too much packaging. Wasted energy. More waste in general. Where can it all go? But the health food store, is sooooo expensive. Do I have to foot the bill for future generations? I’m broke. Unless we’re talking relative to the world, than I’m filthy rich!
- Buying cheap items most likely made with child slave labor. See above, I’m broke. I got rent and stuff I need and I will have student loans to pay. Look at all the money I can save from buying stuff some kid across the world made!
- All these examples make me sound pretty amazing, like I’m totally aware of my impact on the planet. But what about when I joke too much or don’t proofread, or take people for granted in my life?
...what do you feel bad about but inexplicably continue to do? Don’t waste time feeling guilty if it makes you turn away. Just give it a little more attention.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
The Lives Of Others
Searching For A Cause
On Tuesday afternoon I took the L train downtown to go to a Practicum workshop at my school. I got information about possibly working with grieving families, homeless children, and Native American Families. The room, Namaste Hall, where we usually explored the depths of our souls in various drama therapy class, was crammed with a U of conference tables, well meaning people and excited students. I had hoped to find a good place to work with the aging population, but the closest I could find was helping their families deal with their grief after the said aging people had died.
The Train
After leaving fairly disappointed I skimmed the books at the goodwill and, feeling 0 for 2, went down to take the L home. The train was spacious enough for me to sit by myself and lean against the wall near the window. While listening to my ipod shuffle around my music library, I noticed an older man come in with something under his arm sit down. Maybe I noticed him because of his adidas sneakers, which should have been on the feet of someone younger. Then again, it is becoming more common to see older people wearing sneakers with their slacks, dress shirts, and sweater vests. He sat down ten feet away and opened up the white package under his arm. It appeared to be wrapped in white tissue paper. He only unwrapped it enough to gaze at what was inside. His face didn’t change as he leaned forward slightly. He adjusted the package a little, as if taking in the item from all angles. Again, I must note that his faced showed no emotion beyond an intense focus on what he was looking at. For minutes upon minutes, stop after stop, he gazed into the unwrapped flower of paper, sometimes adjusting his weight, or tilting his head to the side, but never looking away. I finally changed seats to see what he was looking at. I sat a little closer when my angle was better, but I could still barely make out his treasure. It appeared to be circular. A plate? A clock? Yes, it as a clock, white with black hands and small pictures instead of numbers. I squinted my eyes. Birds? Chickens? This old man enamored with a chicken clock? His lips parted, rubbing his chin absentmindedly as if he were looking at a difficult math equation? As the train pulled into Castro station he quickly rewrapped the clock, stood up and left.
The Walk
Later that day as I was walking home I took a street with narrow sidewalks because they were lined with hedges. I was almost upon them before I realized there were two people sitting on the ground, near the hedges, wrapped up in such an embrace that I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. They seemed to be sitting next to each other, but facing opposite directions, leaning into each other, arms wrapped around each other’s backs, head’s on each other’s shoulders, similar dark clothes and hats, the hair of one over the back of the other. In the falling dark it could have been two lovers, one comforting the other, a mother and child, or even none person wrapped in layers against the cold, clutching themselves. I wondered what had occurred to form this apparition before me. Assuming it was two people, what tragedy, or what ache, had brought them to such a still embrace?
The Church
Recently I was watching a film or reading a book that had a character going to church. I noticed myself having a feeling I often felt, which was annoyance at how many things I come in contact with have Christian people or characters. It wasn’t about them being bad or anything like that, it was just the sheer numbers, the inundation of seeing people experience this as if it were the norm, but it had nothing to do with my life. I knew I had had these feeling for a long time, maybe my whole life, but had never really examined them. I didn’t want to be a jerk and say “I’m annoyed with all these Christians!” cause how could I explain it and not sound like a jerk? I would be lumped together with those who are annoyed with everything religious people do and I didn’t want to be seen that way. Did I? Then it hit me.
The Privilege
In many of my classes we have looked closely at the privileges in our society. If one is to be a therapist one must be aware of their preconceived notions. For example: if I am spurned by a brown-haired lover, and feel anger towards brunettes, I better know this before I get a client with brown lox. If I don’t my thoughts and actions will be controlled by a resentment that has nothing to do with my client. By looking at our privileges we back the lens up to view society as a whole. How is my life affected by things I don’t realize? Apparently, a lot. More than the things I DO realize. The ways we are privileged we can miss. It’s the ways we are oppressed that we notice. The main privileges we have discussed for Americans are; being white, male, straight, able bodied, neurologically typical, between about 20-50, accepted body type, native born, native English speaker, middle and upper class, and Christian. If I am white, male and straight, I don’t often think of these are defining characteristics. They are “normal.” If I am a woman, or black, gay, in a wheelchair, or poor, these definitely form how I view myself, how I make my identity. How could they not, when this is how society views me BEFORE it sees me as a person?
I came up on the privileged end of all of these, except the Christian one. Okay, I have a lot of privileges, and because I’m privileged, others must be oppressed, and I’m benefiting form the oppression of others. Hmm, something to think about. How can I be more aware of my place in the world. These are great things to be thinking about. What I didn’t think of much was the one place I’m not part of the privileged group, the Christian group. Until recently, as noted above. And then it hit me.
The Revelation
This feeling I have, this exhaustion with being inundated with people unlike me…is this how people of color feel? Women? Immigrants? People with cerebral palsy? As academic as my understanding of oppressed groups had been, here was a tiny lens into what it actually FELT like. So much of our arguments use the same words, but they mean different things to different people, because they FEEL different.
The Meaning.
We seem to think in analogies. One thing is LIKE another. Since every moment is different, everything is different, nothing is really the same or comparable, we must be thinking in analogies. For example, if I hold up a ball and say I’m going to drop it, what will happen? How do you know? Have I stood before you, in this time, in this place, with this ball and dropped it before? No, but similar examples have occurred. We base what we think will happen on what has happened before. The ball will fall to the floor. If it doesn’t we are surprised. We do this with how we view people as well. The problem is, often we aren’t aware of it. The next time we have a strong reaction to someone, whether in person or famous, try to race the feeling. Don’t fear where it goes so much that you lie to yourself. Be brave, see what it happens.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Bindlestiff: Becoming An Ally In The Play Space
Bindlestiff: Becoming an Ally in The Play Space
Dan Weil
Student: California Institute of Integral Studies
Abstract
When some people are privileged that means that others are oppressed. This imbalance takes a toll on everyone, but especially those of the oppressed groups. As a white male living in the Bay Area, my entire life has been saturated with the arts of people with different cultural backgrounds than my own. This paper will focus on my immersion into Bindlestiff Studio, a Filipino-American performing arts space. I will look at how the theatre relates to Nieto’s (2010) developmental stages in Agent(privileged) and Target(oppressed) groups. I will also investigate my reactions and growth as a white male. This paper will explore how Bindlestiff, as a Filipino-American theatre, created a safe play space1 which allowed the Filipino artists a deeper exploration of cultural issues than would be possible in a theatre run by whites
History of Bindlestiff, The Philippines, and Filipino Americans
Bindlestiff Studio opened in 1989 in San Francisco’s South of Market. I joined in 1995 at the age of 16. By 1997 the group running the theatre was burned-out and ready to move on. This was about time that a fellow actor put on a show about the history of the Filipino Woman. The play was called Babae:Woman(Babae is woman in Tagalog). In the audience were members of a new Filipino theatre company who were hungry to do more art. The group was comprised of 2nd and 3rd generation Filipino-Americans and Filipinos who had immigrated. They took over the space soon after, and the little black box theatre became the only Filipino-American performing arts space in the country. Over the years Bindlestiff produced dozens of shows including theatre, poetry, and music, all exploring the identity of being Filipino and Filipino-American.
The Philippines is an archipelago of over 3,000 islands. In the 16th century Spain colonized the islands, spread Catholicism, and established a Spanish ruling class. A variety of uprising by Filipinos over the next 400 years weren’t successful until the Spanish-American war. Promised freedom by the United States, the Filipinos fought and helped defeat Spain. When the war was over America took control of the country, leading to guerilla warfare. Unable to fight America’s modern weaponry, the Philippines became a colony of the United States. It wasn’t 1946 that the Philippines became an independent country. The government has been marred by corruption, especially the 1960’s through 1980’s, when President Marcos ruled with martial law. These are the conditions from which many Filipinos immigrated to the United States (Dela Cruz, et. al 2003).
Most Filipinos who immigrated to the United States came to the west coast or Hawaii. As with immigrants and non-whites, they were often feared, discriminated against, and blamed for society’s ills. During World War II Filipinos were recruited to be cooks and stewards in the army, and after the 1965 Immigration act they began to arrive in America in waves. (Philippine History 2011; Chico University 1998). Though they comprise the largest group of Pacific Islanders in America and the largest group of Asians in California, their customs are virtually unknown to mainstream America, and even many “Americanized” Filipinos. For this reason they have been referred to as the “invisible minority.”(Arain 2011)
Babae
In 1997 Lorna Aquino Chui performed a one-woman show called Babae: Woman, which encapsulated the history of the Philippines into a half dozen short scenes reflecting the major themes of the country and its’ emigrants. These themes were large and very common in the lives of Filipino-Americans. Even those who knew very little about the history of the Philippines could recognize certain words, references, or mannerisms from their family.
The play began with a Filipino creation myth. A bird breaks open a piece of bamboo, revealing man and woman. Throughout the play Lorna played this woman with a clown nose. This is not to mock the character, but to connect her to the sacred clown, the un-changeable core of us, what Landy(2009)would call the guide but Johnson(1996) more accurately calls the true self, stripped of the layers of our roles. In this way, Chui’s clown represented the core of the Filipino people. She then sent this clown through many of the formative struggles of her people.
One of the most memorable and masterfully simple scenes involved only Chui and a prerecorded voice of a Spanish sailor. Chui’s clown, playing a Filipino native, greeted the sailor by telling him the names of things around her. Tubig for water, Lupa for earth, Langit for Sky. He answered with Aqua, terra, cielo, respectively. They then went back and forth, one word at a time. “Tubig-Aqua, lupa-terra, langit-cielo.” The next go-round she only got one syllable out. “Tu-Aqua, lu-terra, lang-cielo.” Next she could only purse her lips to make the Tagalog words before the Spanish words interrupted and replaced them. This showed not just the loss of native language to the colonizer, but the loss of culture and tradition. Because Chui faced the audience in this scene, and there was no actual actor playing the Spaniard, it was easy for me to imagine that we, the audience, were the colonizers. Without even speaking I, as a man of European descent, was taking away the culture of a brown person. The aesthetics (Emunah 1994; Landy 1994) of this piece brought about something not specifically stated; that the privilege and oppression from this cultural theft, and thefts like it, are still continuing today(McIntosh 1990).
Time speeds forward and The Clown is now on an empty stage and a clothes rack walks in with three pieces of clothing; an American soldier's jacket, a long white dress, and a leopard print robe. These are three stereotypical roles often attributed to Filipinos. Chui said “this reflects the dichotomy between virgin and whore, Catholicism and capitalism, both combining in women having to sell their bodies in order to make a living.”
She chooses the dress and becomes a mail order bride. In the next scene she wears a mask on the top of her head and leans forward to play an old man. In this way she is able to go back and forth effortlessly between the Filipina immigrant and a lecherous old man simply by leaning forward and looking down, or standing up straight and facing forward. This technique proves terribly effective when the old man rapes her. She is on all fours, alternating between looking down so the mask is shown while she plunges downward, with looking out at the audience and crying out in agony. Both characters seem to be looking toward the audience as if making them complicit in this act. If the scene were played out with two actors, I may have been taken out of the power of it by thinking about how the actors felt touching each other in such a way. The scene would have to be played out somewhat symbolically. By Chui playing both parts, one at a time but always implying the other character, the audience’s attention is taken up by what they see and what they imagine. We become partners in the scene by imagining the other character violating and being violated. In this way we truly become complicit in the act, and once again must look at how this scene still plays out in our culture.
The play ends with The Clown rocking a bassinet, and passing down to the baby girl a Filipino amulet called an anting anting for protection. Inside of the bassinet is the bamboo woman, symbolizing the rebirth and continuation of the Filipina, and thus the Filipino people as a whole, even after all their struggles. The culture continues today, amazingly intact, with 175 native languages presently spoken there(Lewis 2009).
Though Babae:Woman was a play and not a workshop of people from different cultures, many of the themes made me think of Volkas’ (2009) drama therapy technique Healing the Wounds of History. The collective trauma of colonization was passed down through the generations. Because the play was produced in the United States, that made the audience Americans, mostly of European and Filipino descent. I found myself thinking about American’s complicity in the continued colonization of the Philippines, the exoticising of the Asian Woman, and my county’s treatment of non-white immigrants. Because this was a show and not a workshop, these feelings could have ended there. I could have had ideas stirred in my head, but forgotten them soon after, just as Boal noted when inspired to create Theatre For The Oppressed (Sajnani 2009). The audience members of Filipino descent had a different experience. While I focused on the aesthetics of the theatre and what I was learning, the Filipino audience was drawn into a story created by one of them, for them. McIntosh (1990) notes in her list of things a privileged group takes for granted, “I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.” Before Bindlestiff became a Filipino performing arts space, Babae acted as a beacon and an inspiration to other local Filipino and Filipino-American artists. If it wasn’t for this show, Bindlestiff may have never gone through the cultural metamorphosis that made it the unique space it is today.
Bomba
My first show after Bindlestiff became a Filipino theatre was called Bomba, which means naked in Tagalog. The play comically explored the effects of colonization by America. The first piece began in a nightclub during World War II. Filipinas in short skirts served drinks to American GI’s who made lewd comments. I played one of these soldiers. Because I was friends with the cast, I felt somewhat comfortable when told to bean exaggerated version of a racist white man. The cast seemed to enjoy the rehearsals when I was especially offensive. After a few minutes one of the wronged waitresses makes a wish and suddenly everything is switched. Now the Filipinas are dressed as soldiers and sitting at the tables, and the white GI’s are dressed in very short shorts, vests with no shirts, and sailor hats, all sewn from American flags. Though the scene was played for laughs there was something else in the way the women sneered at us, slapped our rears and joked about our appearance. They were able to symbolically make fools of us, emasculate us, strip away our power and force us into the role of sex object or clown, whichever they preferred. These women could enact the cause of some of their historical shame upon us, to be cruel and violent, without truly being cruel and violent. Just as Landers (2002) explored how dramatic violence in the play space can curb violent impulses in real life, ancestral catharsis can be had by acting out vengeance. Though the Filipinos and whites in the show were all friends and would never be so mean to each other in real life, this doesn’t mean that there weren’t unconscious resentments that could be triggered from any perceived slight or rude action. In this way personal effects of the history of oppression could be explored, along with feelings toward those of the privileged group. After rehearsals and performances there was a loose, light feeling among the cast, as if we had aired our dirty laundry.
The Power of the Space
As I was exploring my feelings about race as a white man, the Filipino-Americans at Bindlestiff were affected in a different way. While I can never presume to know how other people feel, I spent many years involved with Bindlestiff, and have talked extensively with the artists over the years. Many people told me that the theatre felt like home. When I asked them if they meant like the home where they grew up, they invariably answered with a yes and no. Being surrounded by other, Filipinos, hearing Tagalog, and sharing stories of common customs and rituals felt familiar. They said it was a place they could come and be themselves, which is only partially true of their own homes. Some felt a great divide between themselves and their Filipino-born parents. This could be simply because of the generation gap, or of differences in culture and beliefs toward the role of women or homosexuality. Bindlestiff may have reminded people of home, but home on a deeper level. Not only could they explore their feelings about racism and oppression within the context of being Filipino in America, but also their feelings about their own homes, their own shame and accomplishments.
According to Marcia’s identity statuses, exploring ones own identity is typical of Americans when they are in their teens or early twenties(Rathus 2006). His 4 stages include Identity Diffusion, when we don’t really realize our identity; Foreclosure, when we explore other ways of identifying without making any commitments; Moratorium, when we commit to something without questioning it; and Identity Achievement, when after some exploring and questioning, we considerably developing our identity(Rathus 2006). Theatre and the arts are a perfect place to explore oneself outside of the familial identity, because as art forms they are all about self-expression. Being different is applauded, rather than criticized. What differentiates oppressed groups is that they must find themselves not just in response to their family and cultural structure, but within a country that subtly gives them the message of disapproval (McIntosh 1990; Tatum 1997).
If we enfold Marcia’s view of identity with a Nieto’s (2010) Developmental Stages we begin to see the subtle effects of being in an oppressed group. The 5 stages for the Oppressed, or as Nieto calls them, the Target group, are Survival, Confusion, Empowerment, Strategizing, and Re-centering. The Survival stage is someone simply doing what needs to be done to survive. The next stage, Confusion, involves becoming more aware of injustices and differences between themselves and those of the privileged group, but not knowing how to reconcile or understand this. Empowerment sees the Target engaging in group-centric activities, and taking rigid views of their own culture and the privileged group. Neito’s fourth developmental stage, Strategizing, has an individual who chooses their battles and thinks more strategically about how to help their people as well as work with people in the Privileged, or as Nieto calls them, Agent group. The fifth and final stage is called Re-centering. The target group sees themselves as more than just a member of their target group, but as someone within the entire system, and has a more inclusive philosophy while pursuing social justice with other target members and Agent allies. One can easily see how someone in Nieto’s Survival stage could also be in Marcia’s Identity Diffusion stage, or the connection between Identity Achievement with Strategizing and Re-centering.
Because Bindlestiff fulfilled so many needs for Filipinos in various places on Nieto’s and Marcia’s spectrums, it was able to be a safe space to delve even deeper into issues of identity. Bindlestiff as a cultural center was many things, including but not limited to a place to see others that look like yourself, talk like yourself, have similar customs, rituals, problems with/connections to the parents and ancestors, and experiences of racism. It was also a place to meet other people who are exploring their identity in the same development stage as or in a more developed stage, a place to escape the difficulties of home or childhood, and to find acceptance. It was a place of family and community, a place to create art and be inspired by other artists, learn the technical skills of theatre and the business of running a theatre, and to improve the skill or working with others. Most importantly it was a place to invite those close to you so as to share what you have gained, a place to not only create art, but create art collaboratively with others, and a place to express to other members of your target group, as well as those of the agent group, who you are. Because Bindlestiff acted as a refuge from injustice and oppression, as well as family differences, it aided those in Marcia’s more white, western-centric stages, as well as those in Nieto’s multicultural stages. The artists were more able to feel safe and accepted, and thus open up and explore their issues, whatever the source. This may be why, 14 years after Bindlestiff became a Filipino American performing arts venue, I am still connected to and support the theatre. Many of the above mentioned benefits of the space helped teach me about race and my role in the privileged power structure. Many of the other benefits had nothing to do with race, but of being productive, expressive, and connected with others. Since a key component to effective drama therapy is creating a safe space (Emunah 1994) (Landy1994), the existence of Bindlestiff helped cultivate not just shows like Babae and Bomba, but every meeting, rehearsal, and performance that occurred within its black walls. The catharsis of Babae or Bomba could not have occurred in the same way if explored in a white production, in a white theatre for a white-only audience. Being in the space itself was empowering, as was the fact that each of the white actors were willing to be in a show that wasn’t on their usual, privileged terms.
My Feelings and Reactions as a White Man
Some of my deepest connections to others have been through theatre techniques. Though many of these explorations did not deal with cultural issues, I got to know other Filipino-American’s in ways I couldn’t have if it were not in the play space. If I had simply seen the plays, and explored my own feelings about them through art, or with other whites, I would have become more aware of my own feelings, but still seen them from my own point of view, much as Coseo (1997) does in her paper on working with black youth. I did my own writing and processing, but I did much more exploring with other artists in the play space.
My most memorable experiences in the play space occurred during the rehearsals and performance for the play Coconut Masquerade by Melinda Corazon Foley. Because Foley, of mixed Filipino and Irish descent, based the play on her own life, there was a charged atmosphere to the rehearsals. Besides the dichotomy of race, the show also explored the generation gap with her parents, the experience of Vietnam Veterans, and power of the past. Behind the scenes we had a combination of spoken word poets and actors, as well as changes in the management of the theatre. All of these aspects of the show made every rehearsal feel charged with an energy that could make or break us. When our director got chicken pox it seemed the show would implode. Our new director couldn’t begin for another week, so I filled the interim time with different theatre warm-ups I had learned as well as some I developed on the spot. The techniques usually involved the embodiment of our characters and playing out times that weren’t depicted in the play. I took Foley’s character back in time to when she was a child, and we had a family dinner, exploring the impetus of many of the family’s problems. Foley basically played herself in the show, but over the months of rehearsal we began to identify with our characters more and more. Since I played a veteran, sometimes I came to the theatre early to prepare. I put on some chaotic music, grabbed a prop rifle, and stalked around for hours in the dark. After a few minutes alone in the dark I entered an altered state of hyper-vigilance. In the play there is a particularly intense scene with my character and his wife, in which she pours her heart out and he, burned out from PTSD, simply watches television. On the closing night of our run, my wife became so frustrated that she grabbed the remote control and flung it against the wall. I remember my actions as if I weren’t myself. I began to laugh quietly, mirthlessly, then louder, at what we had become. It was the most non-myself I’ve ever felt. Ever since I have felt a particular affinity for the struggle of veterans returning to society. At the end of the run, Foley said I was like a shaman. Snow (2009) sheds some light on this as he points toward the connection between ritual, theatre and therapy. These types of exercises helped me bond with my fellow actors, many of whom were Filipino-Americans. Whether the scenes explored racism or not, they explored who we were on a deep level. Because of this I became a true ally, in the sense that their struggles for identity and social justice were as real, as valid, as tangible as my own. Thus, my subsequent work with the theatre was not because I had romanticized their culture, or wanted to live vicariously through them, but because they, as people, were real.
Conclusion
Bindlestiff’s metamorphosis into a Filipino-American performing arts space made it a safe play space and an ideal breeding ground for Filipino-Americans to cultivate risky, meaningful, cathartic art. The infectious excitement pulled me even deeper into the theatre, where I set aside my privileged status and created theatre with and for Filipinos. I became an ally (Nieto 2010), supporting the Filipino artists’ artistic and social goals for their own community. I was so immersed in another culture that I was forced to accept, deep down, not just their different views and feelings, but see the validity in them. Beyond the time spent together, I was able to explore issues of race, cultures, and relationships within the play space(Johnson 1996). This helped me feel connected to the other artists on a deep level. I always knew that I was supposed to feel this way, but my explorations in the play space helped me truly feel this. This is something that has stayed with me, something I try to remember whenever I come into contact with a culture I don’t understand.
1. It should be noted that while David Read Johnson(1996) uses the term playspace specifically to denote the “process of removal or transformation” happening between the therapist and the client based around the stripped down encounter between the two, I am using play space to mean a place of shared imagination between two or more people, more similar to Susana Pendzick’s(2006) dramatic realty, “a tangible entrance into an imaginary realm.”
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