December 5th, 2011. Kabul.



Photographed by Massoud Hosaini, 05/12/11.



While many of us struggled to decide what t.v show to watch while consuming dinner, or felt overwhelmed by deadlines and expectations, a young girl screamed for the failure of the human race to protect her humanity. Though I hate to put words into her mouth, it's undeniable that this girl is in shock, in horror, in a moment of hell only some of us are ever put through. December 5, 2011, Kabul, Afghanistan. Monday. I'd just finished my monologue presentations the Friday prior. Two weeks left of class. Quite literally in my case. All my worries and fears at that time, about performing, about my skills and capabilities, my future, were all perfectly valid. I am no less worldy or compassionate for being so concerned about my own life. It's my responsibility to care about the struggles and concerns that structure my world. Nonetheless, how shockingly trivial it all is in comparison to the image above. A small pile of even smaller bodies, and whatever ideals of peace and togetheness that existed within those bodies, shattered. That's what I imagine it to be. But I'm just another priviledged Westerner projecting some vague semblances of humanity onto some atrocity, continents away. Sure, in a greater sense, we're all of the same race, the same heart, and all injustice affects everyone of us. In our day to day lives however, how much do even the most grotesque acts directly affect us? The world very literally keeps turning. Life stops for no one, belongs to no one, is here for all and every experience equally. It has no preferences, no biases. Life is here to be lived by all that care to breathe, grow, be touched by sunlight and one day, be held by death.

There's a little girl in a pink sweater drinking milk from a green Starbucks straw, a few tables away. Parents in tow, speaking a language I can't quite place. Dutch, maybe German. The girl is tiny. Her older sister comes to her, pink mittens attached to the sleeves of her jacket. I want desperately to create some bridge between the children in front of me and the children in the photo, but perhaps there just isn't one. These are completely different samples of humanity. Their realities are astonishingly different. Their trials incomparable, their tears shed for disappointments of staggeringly different proportions. Sure, our similarities across landscapes, whether geographical or culturally constructed, are remarkable, but our differences are what give our experiences shape and definition, and by virtue of this, some structures are easier to live in than others.

The children in front me, now gone home, will most likely never face such brutal cruelty laid bare in front of them. Those in the photograph, who are alive, will forever be marked by the barbaric slaughter they once witnessed, and perhaps, will continue to witness.

And that's just the way it is. Suffering distributed in a seemingly senseless, random pattern. Religious fanatics will argue otherwise, stating that the belief in a false god, or the inability to appease the right one, will cause well deserved waves of horror. Economists and poltical scientists will offer statistics and equations, historical imperatives and current societal phenomena, to account for the state of the world. Artists will strive to extrapolate meaning from the chaos. I cannot speak to what all the various other factions of people will do, think, or feel. I have a hunch that most will wince, or sigh, and move on. Those responses are fine. They're the most that, in many circumstances, can be done. I'm not advocating for apathy or for distancing ourselves from the suffering of others. I'm saying it's important to recognize the scope of human experience, and to attempt to reconcile the immense incomprehensibility of it all, the potential futility of it all, with the desire to improve in whatever small ways we can, the landscapes we inhabit.

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First draft. I felt very compelled to write about this image, though as of now I'm not sure what I want the reader to take away, or rather what exactly I want to say. Perhaps I really shouldn't say anything at all, and let the brutality speak for itself.

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respected

Sun won't set until August.
I wanna live there. Sunlight pouring into my bedroom, all day, all night.
Plants growing green, warmth on my face, from something else than a blow.
He doesn't hit me but I feel deep bruises nonetheless.
If only your body punished me and not your words,
I could honour my own suffering.
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This is by no means to say I wish to be physically abused, but rather that emotional abuse isn't taken as seriously, although it is still a form of violence.

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do a lot of work.




Shared with me via facebook. Here's to a copious amount of blogging, to lessen the gap.



Something beautiful

Something beautiful.

A dog chasing it's tail
My mothers eyes
My father making up lyrics to songs
Dan's maniacal laugh
George
Alina's soul
Encouragement from friends
Anita's crazy (crazy being a noun)
Pictures of Alex and I in Phillie
Love so strong it makes you cry
Knowing nothing lasts forever, so it's all gonna be fine.


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men of my life

the men of my life

have torn me down, stomped on me, loved me, laughed with me, beraded me, controlled me, nurtured me, created me, caressed me, held me, astonished me, pained me, defiled me, respected me, taught me, stained me, blamed me, ignored me, devoured me, worshipped me, gifted me, confined me, punished me, tickled me, desired me, read me, hated me, inspired me, lost me, rejected me, upset me, lifted me, valued me, fucked me, kissed me, forgot me, twisted me, adored me, acknowledged me, thanked me, enraged me, blessed me, left me, breathed me, drank me, fought me, drained me, revived me.
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Words for thought. That's all.


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Rebuilding.

I'd like to expand on and tidy up this metaphore, but here it is, just as it came into my mind.
______

I had a book of Me, and I've spent a lot of time tearing out these pages of myself, crumpling them into balls and throwing them away. There's a big pile. What I need to do is to go through each of these discarded pages, each a piece of myself,  open them up, smooth them out, and rebuilt myself, page by page, into a stronger, sturdier work of art.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Extension of the Gut

This is a statement I wrote in April 2011 as per the requirements of George Brown's Audition. I like it.  I thought I would share.

For many, theatre is the name of a space with a stage and seating, black curtains and Fresnel’s, and hopefully, good acoustics. Some people call theatre an art, an aesthetic medium for exploring the questions that define our struggles as human beings. I say that theatre is an extension of the gut which when left unfed will ulcerate and corrode the carrier from inside. I say that theatre is not a choice but a visceral need for those who discover it calling from inside of them. Theatre is the only place outside of the womb where true creation takes place, and a return to the womb is what we as humanity need, because we’re dying. We need a rebirth.

Potential Penpals

I should write to parliament every day. I should write to Stephen Harper every day telling him what I think of what he's doing. I could send comical yet scathing letters about the state of our education system and the treatment of First Nations. I could condemn his conversative views while poking fun at them in a jolly mocking way. Something Wildean. Mr. Harper, your privatization initiative is poppycock! He'll think I'm an old English woman, and listen to my wisdom. That's a lot of money on stamps and stationary. I could use recycled stationary with owl stickers. Maybe subconsciously create a sense of caring for the environment via owls. Owls are the answer for our future. Owl stickers to be precise. I will send him videos of myself lipsyching to Right Back To Where We Started From by Maxine Nightingale for when he is sad. Why would I take such care to tickle a man whose views I so greatly despise? Because you catch more flies with honey, that's why! I will drown him in honey, drown his closeminded soul with honey, sweet tender liberal honey from the loins of feminism! Exactly! I will also write to Rob Ford, using a large font and bright colours to peak his interesting, and explain to him why bicycles are good, and why books are good. I will draw detailed pictures, in crayon, and explain the history of Asian-Canadians, and why they've had to work so damn hard. (He said they work like dogs. Here's a link talking about it: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/rob-ford-and-a-decade-of-controversy/article1678543/

Canadian politics is at a golden age of warm, glowing bullshit.

Recently, in federal communcations, instead of using the heading Government of Canada, Harper Government has started to be used.

http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/story/2011/03/04/pol-harper-govt-brand.html

"It's not Stephen Harper's government, it's the goverment of all Canadians," Liberal MP Dominic LeBlanc told CBC News. "You'd expect this kind of directive to be issued by the ministry of information in North Korea."

I agree with Mr. LeBlanc on this point. What next, Harper Government issued school curriculums, textbooks, Harper Government certified homes- fully equipped with 24 survellience and chains for women, people of colour, and gays, so they don't infiltrate the workforce?

If I mysteriously go missing, you all know why. It's because I can PREDICT THE FUTURE*.

*I cannot actually PREDICT THE FUTURE, uppercase or otherwise.

Various Delectables

What is happening to me? And is it worthy to even wonder what, or why? There are only more questions. If anything I've learned that. That there are only questions and pain, questions and pain. Questions cause pain, and questions can comfort pain. They can comfort pain because questions provide hope, somewhere to go, a journey which has promise. 

Answers are solid and immobile. What to do with an answer? A heavy moldy answer filled with years of shit and decay. Answers are always heavy. But can answers change? If the question changes does the answer change? Can perception change? Sure, perception can change, but can truth change? Can situations change? If truth is not a fixed thing, if truth is also perception... how to find another perception, another perspective? How to find a nicer rock to sit on? That's all it is, comfort, trying to find comfort. But comfort is boring. Ay, there's the rub. I am sad and angry, but is it all futile. Living without expressing is futile and useless and a waste of time. Everything is an expression. Non-expression is an expression. 

Twitter, Facebook, blogs, it's all about expression. People crave expression, people need expression, but we're all so fucking bad at it. Isn't that strange? One of the most essential desires for human kind and we suck at it. Well, we don't suck per se, but we're inefficient. Twitter is a useful tool no doubt, (revolution!) but it is a pathetic substitute for REAL COMMUNICATION, whether that be through conversation, visual or performing arts, crafts or trades, fashion, or otherwise. 

Fashion. Fashion. Fashion is useful for expression but so quickly turns into a status issue, a signifier of so many things except authentic personality. People love haut-couteur because it's crazy and wild and reveals something about it's designers-even if we're not sure what that actually is.

I have a hunger but it’s not for food. Not sure what it is. Am I just lonely? Is it that simple? It usually is. No, that’s not true. It’s 20 years of weird complications that can’t be fixed. Or is it just boredom. I don’t think I can believe that anything is ever simple.

I don’t know how to edit this. I’ll just heave it out into the world and see what happens. I want to be brave and hide nothing but I also fear seeming careless. 

Sleep Dissonance.

How is it that in a single moment I can go from the verge of sleep, the very edge of sleep, from whence if I fall  it will take me to a sweet and glorious slumber, to being wide awake? Wide awake, but still tired mind you, 1000 miles away from the very border of rest which I was only a moment ago, so close to. What happens in these moments, what happens to the neurons in my brain, what do they say to each other to create these extra hours of restlessness for me? Is it a sign? Have I truly not completed my days work? And why so many thoughts- where do all these thoughts come from? The moment my head touches my pillow-THOUGHTSTHOUGHTSTHOUGHTSTHOUGHTS. A lethargic and dreary mind turns into a hyperactive mess of every single event, anecdote, fantasy, or displeasure it could possibly create. 


Is it merely that I am an artist? Is it merely that I have stirred my creative juices to the point of continual motion? Did I eat sugar too close to bedtime? Am I overweight? Is this payback for all my rudeness and coldness towards my family? Is there a child dying somewhere in the world who is praying for help, whose prayer isn't reaching God and is interfering with my dream channel? Can that happen? Does God exist? Dogs exist for sure. I have seen many in my time. Small dogs, big dogs, smelly dogs, hairy dogs, hairless dogs, fun dogs, boring dogs, skinny dogs, fat dogs, loving dogs, unhappy dogs- I have seen all of these dogs in my own dog actually. Except the hairless part- oh no wait, they shaved his leg for his surgery, I've seen all of them. Much as I've seen many sides of humanity in each person I've ever encountered, if only in small glimpses. In some people, I've seen the greatest shows of opposites. Ying and yang. Love and indifference. Love and hate. Caring and cruelty. I've seen these in myself as well. And will continue to. 


Goodnight. 

The Reckoning Song- Asaf Avidan

Asaf Avidan, a Jerusalem based singer/songwriter, is currently navigating the channels of my aural soul, and rocking it. He is one of the bravest singers I've encountered in a long time, allowing his voice full reign, creating a world which each crackling word, crackling in the heat of his inner fire. His voice reverberates alongside the twanging of his guitar, creaking and jumping up in ways I didn't know a voice could do. A child dangerously playing with a tight elastic band, close to his eye. But for the greater part of his songs, he sings in a soft, very feminine sounding voice, and only brings out his trapeze-esque sound for the crucial parts of his choruses.  There is however, always a quality of sand in his voice, a graininess, perhaps a reflection of the deserts of his country and the surrounding landscape. 

His lyrics live up to the demands of his emotion sculpting voice. There's a melancholic desire, a melancholic truth to each song. 

"Weak, weak, tell me I'm weak, tell me these promises are not mine to keep"

"I know I said that I was sure, but rich men can't imagine poor. One day, baby, we'll be old, oh baby, we'll be old, and think of all the stories that we could have told"

All the stories that we could have told... what stories would we have told, and to whom? About what? 


I'll never know, but at least Asaf doesn't know either.

Lingering Sentiments

"Old friend, why're you so shy/ Ain't like you to hold back/ Or hide from the light" loops over and over in my mind. 

Reminds me of my dog, now deceased. I feel my family and I wore him out with our catatonic lethargy, with our dull anger and soft cynicism. He could taste it in the air, he felt in our bodies as we brushed him, showing him the love we couldn't show each other. Treating him to the same rejections we gave each other, the same faded hopes for a meaningful end. It seems silly somehow- could a dog really see all of this? He never howled in pain or hurt, although the rest of us did. But on second thought, he did. He did make a lot of noise. We all made a lot of noise, but never learned to listen. So we became silent, within and outside of ourselves. This is such a quiet house. A quiet place does not equate peace. I think here it equates pieces, pieces of what was once whole, sticking to whatever they can hold on to, in hopes of one day graphing on. Burnt skin over fresh flesh, though, not the other way around.