I have had numerous exchanges recently concerning the nature and potential of happiness, or rather a happy life. It seems that so many do not consider that happiness may exist in the same moment as hurt, pain, regret, or many other numerous emotions that test and refine (define?) the human condition.
In the light of this past weekend's events, it feels even more possible to me that our lives are a delicious mixing of the two -- happiness and hurt. There are good hurts after all, and happy lies and many other such sayings -- perhaps there is much wisdom in even the simplest idiomatic expression and paradigm.
When life can end so quickly, it seems each wasted moment is priceless. If only our awareness was as keen as our sense of loss in hindsight. So with that being said, I am voicing the following items on my bucket list for the universe's eyes and ears -- truly now what we voice is both heard AND seen given the multi-faceted nature of the interweb.
Ahem...
1. Richard Armitage, I would like to go riding with you in Hyde Park and then have supper and wine...in New Zealand.
2. I want to walk the Great Wall of China with TN Hahn and discuss parallels in Christianity in the West and Eastern Buddhism.
3. Mierle Ukeles, I want to shake YOUR hand.
4. I wish to visit Nigeria and study African Drumming there first hand.
5. Achieve Master Gardener status somewhere.
6. One day, I want to learn to gallop on a horse -- and enjoy it!
7. Travel with my concerts to small intimate spaces and spread cultural commerce.
8. Get a tan and fit into my Brasilian Bikini.
9. Enroll in an Aerial class and work up to the Egyptian Mummy and perfect my splits.
10. See Alaska, India, and Easter Europe -- and sing in creative spaces in each.
and 11. Write American Soundscapes for the next 10 years!
Cheers!
MB Disco
Sunday, October 24
Wednesday, September 15
Rallying in Raleigh
Dear Adoring, Fawning Public -- Lend me your ears!
BLERG! Yes, i have been introduced to 30 Rock and the world of BLERG!
And here I sit, in coffee shop heaven, almost literally, at Cafe Helios on Glenwood Ave in Raleigh, NC. Local produce, shade grown coffee, personable chefs, modern interpretations of PoP Art on the walls, economy flush toilets....the works! Cara Hagan, my illustrious collaborator extraordinaire, and I are conducting our Artist Residency at NCState working with the Panaramic Dance Project. We are workshopping our performance piece, Common Threads, on the ladies and gentleman this week. It is a larger group than the original structure of the work calls for so we are making adaptations and stretching the piece and ourselves. The dancers would tell you we are stretching them as well...
Two weeks prior we sent a homework assignment out for every dancer to bring a letter written to a significant female figure in his or her life. At our first meeting/rehearsal, we shared our letters and then extracted word phrases to pair with original seed movements generated by the dancers themselves. There was sharing and teaching and learning of the collective lyric that we formed by piecing together the different thoughts and phrases. We are taking the result and creating introductory and transitional compositional material for common threads involving whispered voices, musically realized and embodied monologues, and woven moving lines of bodies throughout Common Threads. I call the results "Whispered Words and Letters" and I'm quite excited with the sonic experience. The sound is haunting, lively, and ghostly -- invoking the past with the energy of the present. The work continues to refine itself through the collaborative process and Cara and I grow in our relationship as well. Nothing says "close" like finding out you are sharing a bed with your collaborator in the Resident Artist Apartment!
Meanwhile, I continue to dust off my dancing shoes and get moving. Last night we hosted our Performative Painting workshop, co-created with Goddard College alumna Ellen Greenblum. The class of 20 or so moved and groved, painted and postured, ripped and shredded, drummed and hummed. It was fantastic! We finallyl drew it to a close after an hour and a half of "Play Time" although I think the group could have gone all night! No one wanted to leave. What a measure of success.
All in all, my collaborations have all resulted in just that: a happy, satisfied audience who's ready for more! Nothing is more satisfying than knowing you hosted that kind of party. Man, I really love people. And making Art.
Hope you are all equally satisfied or are taking steps to become so,
Still shakin it!
MB Disco
Wednesday, August 11
Common Threads, Uncommon Friends
If you are a musician and you have not checked out The Spot Studio in Winston-Salem, NC then you are missing something very cool and inspiring. Okay, I should also mention that if you are a musician AND you love trees and everything natural then....ditto all of the above. This week saw another piece of the collaborative puzzle, currently known as Common Threads, fall into place. Cara Hagan, my collaborator extraordinaire gifted me with some Spot Studio Time this week -- the results of which I find most pleasing. Imagine a sound (vocal) booth surrounded by beautiful woodwork, killer mics at multiple angles, the best coffee and the smell of cypress, pine and other woods gently wafting around you. I felt absolutely transported and that's what gets to me in most other studio settings -- the sterility. All of these beautiful "toys" and processors and cables and incredible programs of sound recording and manipulation, tons of talent, and then foam. Foam and panels as far as the eye can see and such a feeling of containment and being boxed in, so that you almost have to close your eyes or turn your imagination on overdrive. Not so at Spot. I felt like I had transported to some woodland retreat in the Pacific Northwest. Granted, I have been studying somatic body work as a means to unlocking greater creative expression and so to go to a place where smell is such an inspiring factor (for me at least, fresh wood is a happy trigger) -- wow.
Chris, our fabulous engineer, was great. Knowledgeable, creative, everything. And that's just it -- I felt like so much attention to creative detail had been crafted into that studio that it inspired notes in me. I'm telling you, it's well worth the trip to make music at this place. So check it out.
And stay posted for more on Common Threads, an artistic exploration and tribute to women's work, relationships, and experiences. We have a few installments now of this dance/music work -- so far all are a capella women's voices and we're thinking of keeping it that way. Cara has a piece called "Eve at the River," and another, "Our Quilt." I've gotten work done on "Georgia,"a tribute to my grandmother's life and legacy, with "Lilith" and "Letter Song" and "Sweet Femininity" mapped out and/or in process...but NOW that I know what a beautiful studio process awaits me, I am totally motivated to finish these pieces up and get a recording done by early November so that we can begin work on the CD.
Cara and I are workshopping a few threads or pieces of CT (Common Threads) at NC State this fall. We're looking forward to tightening our stitches, so to speak, but already the work is garnering positive feedback and excitement. There is talk of a US mini-tour of the work. Hopefully my hometown will be interested in hosting us for Piccolo Spoleto or some other artistic festival.
Meanwhile, it's back to the home studio...and the garden...and my trees!
Make the world your dance party!
MB Disco
Chris, our fabulous engineer, was great. Knowledgeable, creative, everything. And that's just it -- I felt like so much attention to creative detail had been crafted into that studio that it inspired notes in me. I'm telling you, it's well worth the trip to make music at this place. So check it out.
And stay posted for more on Common Threads, an artistic exploration and tribute to women's work, relationships, and experiences. We have a few installments now of this dance/music work -- so far all are a capella women's voices and we're thinking of keeping it that way. Cara has a piece called "Eve at the River," and another, "Our Quilt." I've gotten work done on "Georgia,"a tribute to my grandmother's life and legacy, with "Lilith" and "Letter Song" and "Sweet Femininity" mapped out and/or in process...but NOW that I know what a beautiful studio process awaits me, I am totally motivated to finish these pieces up and get a recording done by early November so that we can begin work on the CD.
Cara and I are workshopping a few threads or pieces of CT (Common Threads) at NC State this fall. We're looking forward to tightening our stitches, so to speak, but already the work is garnering positive feedback and excitement. There is talk of a US mini-tour of the work. Hopefully my hometown will be interested in hosting us for Piccolo Spoleto or some other artistic festival.
Meanwhile, it's back to the home studio...and the garden...and my trees!
Make the world your dance party!
MB Disco
Tuesday, July 6
New Summer, New Rhythms
Ah, Summer!
There is nothing like the dawn of a new decade and the rush of humidity to spur one to healthier habits....
For me, that means upping the thermostat (cutting it up, as I usually say but provide the former phrasing for the rest of the population), upping my veggie intake (and considering going veggie by the ol' birthday), and upping the physical regimen. I'm working up to daily yoga and in preparation for horseback riding in the fall and a probable birthday month trip to New York and aerial classes -- the old Britney Spears routine:
600 situps
50 pushups
15 pull ups
200 leg lifts (Each side)
150 brasilian butt blasters, each leg.
AND swimming and running alternate days 4 days a week.
I hope to wear the new brasilian bikini bottoms proudly in the decade to come...why not?!
In the past, increased physical discipline has strengthened both the outer (physical) and inner (emotional/spiritual) core. This has been one challenging year with the loss of one dear friend after another. Now with more changes in the near future, I thought some inner and outer bulking up was in order. I'll keep you posted as to the physicality of my new practice. Not coincidentally, I have been leaning towards the prepared piano repertoire...hmmm, interesting.
Cheers Ballers everywhere!
Go Germany!
MB Disco
There is nothing like the dawn of a new decade and the rush of humidity to spur one to healthier habits....
For me, that means upping the thermostat (cutting it up, as I usually say but provide the former phrasing for the rest of the population), upping my veggie intake (and considering going veggie by the ol' birthday), and upping the physical regimen. I'm working up to daily yoga and in preparation for horseback riding in the fall and a probable birthday month trip to New York and aerial classes -- the old Britney Spears routine:
600 situps
50 pushups
15 pull ups
200 leg lifts (Each side)
150 brasilian butt blasters, each leg.
AND swimming and running alternate days 4 days a week.
I hope to wear the new brasilian bikini bottoms proudly in the decade to come...why not?!
In the past, increased physical discipline has strengthened both the outer (physical) and inner (emotional/spiritual) core. This has been one challenging year with the loss of one dear friend after another. Now with more changes in the near future, I thought some inner and outer bulking up was in order. I'll keep you posted as to the physicality of my new practice. Not coincidentally, I have been leaning towards the prepared piano repertoire...hmmm, interesting.
Cheers Ballers everywhere!
Go Germany!
MB Disco
Thursday, May 6
Intended Poems
Here is my horoscope for this week according to Free Will Astrology -- which I love, like an addiction. Can you love an addiction? I think so...
LIBRA:
When a girl is born, her ovaries already contain all the eggs she will ever have. What this means, of course, is that a part of you was in your grandmother's womb as well as in your mother's. Now would be an excellent time to celebrate that primal fact. Your connection with your mother's mother is especially important these days. I suggest you meditate on what gifts and liabilities you received from her (genetic and otherwise), and how you might be able to make better use of the gifts even as you take steps to outwit the liabilities.
I have been reading the poetry of Sharon Olds and Mary Harjo. I have also been spending time contemplating the memory of my maternal grandmother. I do not contemplate my paternal grandmother as often and I rationalize this based on a lack of closeness due to a propensity for precociousness as a small child. Nevertheless, this horoscope hit home hard enough to trigger a poem. My creation lies below.
As a brief explanation, I have spent my entire life answering this question incorrectly:
"Are there other artists or musicians in your family?"
"No. I'm just a hiccup (or some other numbskull response)".
Let me try a less bonehead answer...
"Are there other artists or musicans in your family?"
"Why yes! I come from a line of prolific artists. My grandmother Ball is a master gardener, decorator and cook. My grandma Johnston is an amazing seamstress. She masterminds her own recipes and designs. She can make anything -- especially a mean pot of coffee. As a nurse, she fixes people. You won't find better stitches or bedside manner in at least three counties!"
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers in my life.
LINEAGE
I come from a line of artists.
My father’s mother— My mother’s mother:
SHE is an artist.
Her hands form garden beds,
pinch sucker buds from leafy green tips,
nurture supple stems
and break up angry root balls.
Her knees ache from the weight of her body,
Her strong back buckles under the sun’s fierce heat
And yet she toils on
And on creating beauty out of dirt and shit.
Where there was an empty canvas of earth,
She leaves a spread of foliage and flower,
A blanket of nature’s bounty spread out before her –
an organic quilt of her life’s work.
My other mother sews.
Her hands, once nimble,
Now old and arthritic, grip the needles,
one knit two, pearl one , drop 2
the patterns run through her mind
now riddled with the holes of memories
forgotten.
Handstitched quilts,
Crocheted afghans,
Christmas booties,
Bathing suits and cover-ups,
Suits and socks
She made them all
Out of love and labor.
She labors now to breath
And walk
And eat
And shit.
My mother nurses the nurse
Who cannot remember my name
Or who I am
Although I swear her eyes light up when I smile
A flicker of ghostly recognition
Skimming across icy blue eyes.
A moment of clarity pulled
from the chaos and confusion.
I come from HER womb
HER eggs,
My heritage.
We hold each other
In tummies stretched from childbirth,
Sluggish from aging digestion
Soft from years of loving.
And pregnant with the possibilities
Of future generations
Of women
Of artists.
Artful living running in my blood
Coursing through me in monthly cycles.
Now I plant, I gather, I sew in story
Line and line again
I recreate the cycle of my Mothers.
I live the work of HER hands:
Wrapping myself in love-made quilts
Digging my hands into dirt, burying myself elbow deep
In my soiled canvas—
Shit becomes Splendor,
Work begets Joy
And Art abounds in All things
Created by HER Hands.
We are Creator.
We are Artists.
We are Women.
LIBRA:
When a girl is born, her ovaries already contain all the eggs she will ever have. What this means, of course, is that a part of you was in your grandmother's womb as well as in your mother's. Now would be an excellent time to celebrate that primal fact. Your connection with your mother's mother is especially important these days. I suggest you meditate on what gifts and liabilities you received from her (genetic and otherwise), and how you might be able to make better use of the gifts even as you take steps to outwit the liabilities.
I have been reading the poetry of Sharon Olds and Mary Harjo. I have also been spending time contemplating the memory of my maternal grandmother. I do not contemplate my paternal grandmother as often and I rationalize this based on a lack of closeness due to a propensity for precociousness as a small child. Nevertheless, this horoscope hit home hard enough to trigger a poem. My creation lies below.
As a brief explanation, I have spent my entire life answering this question incorrectly:
"Are there other artists or musicians in your family?"
"No. I'm just a hiccup (or some other numbskull response)".
Let me try a less bonehead answer...
"Are there other artists or musicans in your family?"
"Why yes! I come from a line of prolific artists. My grandmother Ball is a master gardener, decorator and cook. My grandma Johnston is an amazing seamstress. She masterminds her own recipes and designs. She can make anything -- especially a mean pot of coffee. As a nurse, she fixes people. You won't find better stitches or bedside manner in at least three counties!"
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers in my life.
LINEAGE
I come from a line of artists.
My father’s mother— My mother’s mother:
SHE is an artist.
Her hands form garden beds,
pinch sucker buds from leafy green tips,
nurture supple stems
and break up angry root balls.
Her knees ache from the weight of her body,
Her strong back buckles under the sun’s fierce heat
And yet she toils on
And on creating beauty out of dirt and shit.
Where there was an empty canvas of earth,
She leaves a spread of foliage and flower,
A blanket of nature’s bounty spread out before her –
an organic quilt of her life’s work.
My other mother sews.
Her hands, once nimble,
Now old and arthritic, grip the needles,
one knit two, pearl one , drop 2
the patterns run through her mind
now riddled with the holes of memories
forgotten.
Handstitched quilts,
Crocheted afghans,
Christmas booties,
Bathing suits and cover-ups,
Suits and socks
She made them all
Out of love and labor.
She labors now to breath
And walk
And eat
And shit.
My mother nurses the nurse
Who cannot remember my name
Or who I am
Although I swear her eyes light up when I smile
A flicker of ghostly recognition
Skimming across icy blue eyes.
A moment of clarity pulled
from the chaos and confusion.
I come from HER womb
HER eggs,
My heritage.
We hold each other
In tummies stretched from childbirth,
Sluggish from aging digestion
Soft from years of loving.
And pregnant with the possibilities
Of future generations
Of women
Of artists.
Artful living running in my blood
Coursing through me in monthly cycles.
Now I plant, I gather, I sew in story
Line and line again
I recreate the cycle of my Mothers.
I live the work of HER hands:
Wrapping myself in love-made quilts
Digging my hands into dirt, burying myself elbow deep
In my soiled canvas—
Shit becomes Splendor,
Work begets Joy
And Art abounds in All things
Created by HER Hands.
We are Creator.
We are Artists.
We are Women.
Thursday, April 29
Daily Intention
I really need a Tahitian hangover vacation.
I need a glass in my hand, the sand in my feet
and the wind in my hair.
I don't care how, I don't care when
Just get me there.
MB Disco.
Hmmm, I wonder how that intention will surface into a song...
Meanwhile, Time to write more playbook songs. I had my students turn their lunch duty blues into songs. Some funny stuff came out, including one of my own about sitting in spilt milk.
Try it -- for whatever in life ails ya', there's some healin lyrics and a song to be written that will turn your grimace into giggles.
I need a glass in my hand, the sand in my feet
and the wind in my hair.
I don't care how, I don't care when
Just get me there.
MB Disco.
Hmmm, I wonder how that intention will surface into a song...
Meanwhile, Time to write more playbook songs. I had my students turn their lunch duty blues into songs. Some funny stuff came out, including one of my own about sitting in spilt milk.
Try it -- for whatever in life ails ya', there's some healin lyrics and a song to be written that will turn your grimace into giggles.
Wednesday, April 28
The Play Book
I began composing my Playbook Song Cycle this past packet period. Past packet. Ha. I like it. Nothing like beginning with the digression.
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 22
Play Books
So I come from a family of sportaholics. The only part I inherited is the stubborn variety of the perseverence gene. I can run, I can play raquet sports fairly well -- I have a wicked backhand that will take you by surprise -- softball, horshoes, swimming, horseback riding, water polo...
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 15
signposts and metaphors
Dear reader, self and sympathetic universe,
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
Tuesday, April 13
Mary Mary...
So here is the gist of it. I walked around my yard today ... and cried. Not the bawling, face splattering kind of tear-struck emotional outpouring, but a gentle welling up of the soul via tear ducts. You see, this yard project sprung up out of a time of great pain, personal sacrifice, and loss. In the design and planting of it, I knew that my yard's blooming would also mark the period of time that I took to heal, regroup, and redirect my life. Seeing the tangible fruition of my labors took my breath away. There is still much to be grown, for both of us -- my yard and me -- but what I see already is so beautiful. It is not that the outward beauty has reached its zenith, but more the visual proof and showing that everything has found its place. I have 100% success with my transplants, all of which are sporting new sprouts, first flowers, and new shoots. The birds and bees are humming and squirrels are making merry. One variety of hostas all came back in my shade garden! I thought between my efforts to pull them out and the rabbits ravenous eating habits that they were all but done for and yet, I stand surprised and gape-mouthed at the six survivors. There are roses, azaleas, laurels, spider lilies, bridal wreaths, jasmine and berries.
Most importantly, pink abounds. Pink, the symbol of everything I have considered weak, vulnerable and therefore "less-than" has triumphed in my yard. Slowly and steadily, she has claimed her stake and in so doing taught me a lesson about myself. Pink has re-gifted me my vulnerability in this new package that I can marvel in and cherish. Pink is the color of our insides, our guts. It is what makes us go, yet I spent years eradicating this color of health and vitality from my life. It seems so silly now, as if the very flowers are laughing at me and saying "I told you so."
Stemming with gratitude today,
Yours,
MB Disco
Most importantly, pink abounds. Pink, the symbol of everything I have considered weak, vulnerable and therefore "less-than" has triumphed in my yard. Slowly and steadily, she has claimed her stake and in so doing taught me a lesson about myself. Pink has re-gifted me my vulnerability in this new package that I can marvel in and cherish. Pink is the color of our insides, our guts. It is what makes us go, yet I spent years eradicating this color of health and vitality from my life. It seems so silly now, as if the very flowers are laughing at me and saying "I told you so."
Stemming with gratitude today,
Yours,
MB Disco
Saturday, April 3
A new ID
Dear Fans,
There is a moral to this story. To save you the time of reading the story and me the trouble of typing it, here goes: If you are going to run and get back into the "best shape of your life" do not think that keeping your Drivers License and Debit Card in the back pocket of jeans that used to fit super tightly is a "safe place." However, if your current ID represents and encompasses a certain period of life that you no longer IDentify with, perhaps this is the smartest idea ever. You end up with an official police report, a nice policeman's card with your case number in case you are pulled over prior to the DMV reopening and a new start -- a new ID.
Lessons abound in the universe. You also learn who will walk with you willingly when things get sticky.
All for the affordable price of $10.
Zenfully yours,
MB Disco
There is a moral to this story. To save you the time of reading the story and me the trouble of typing it, here goes: If you are going to run and get back into the "best shape of your life" do not think that keeping your Drivers License and Debit Card in the back pocket of jeans that used to fit super tightly is a "safe place." However, if your current ID represents and encompasses a certain period of life that you no longer IDentify with, perhaps this is the smartest idea ever. You end up with an official police report, a nice policeman's card with your case number in case you are pulled over prior to the DMV reopening and a new start -- a new ID.
Lessons abound in the universe. You also learn who will walk with you willingly when things get sticky.
All for the affordable price of $10.
Zenfully yours,
MB Disco
Thursday, March 25
Hot! Hot! Hot!
I am flabbergasted at the workings of the powers that be in the universe. My powers that be now have a special way of communicating with me via our magic calling card. But first...the story.
At my last grad school residency at Fort Warden, my hallmate Cara and I had an almost nightly ritual of burning the duraflame log in the old fireplace in my bedroom. My bedroom also happened to be on the second story, lit by chandelier and overlooking the amazing Juan de Fuca strait, rimmed by the Olympic Mountain range and crowned at its mouth by Mt. Baker. No complaints here. Perhaps working with Student Council racked up some extra karma points along the way...but I digress.
Anyhow, Cara and I would sit up, chat, collaborate, decompress and trade dance and singing techniques all while the duraflame log blazed and burned down to tiny coals and ash by morning. I fell asleep to the fire flames dancing and softly crackling in the night. It was my safe haven....and my new karmic calling card to return to that place of light, rest, comfort and safety.
Last night was the first "re-siting" of the logs. After a day that began at 6am, but prefigures the Easter And Passion Week to come, I was still starved, exhausted and foodless at home. After my fourth "job" of the day, I was cruising the aisles of the Downtown Harris Teeter; me, teetering on the edge of harried -- when I saw it -- the logs! Right when I needed a jolt back to that lovely retreat. The duraflame logs were there, winking out at me from behind a display of matches and trash bags. My little eyes lit up and I felt the early bubbling of a giggle. Press...Release.
I made it home, unpacked groceries and eventually fell into bed. I do not recall showering, which is not to say it did not occur, but I was past the point of caring. I'll just wash the sheets more often this week.
Then today. The alarm sounding 6am far too soon. Not that I do not love Bill Frisell serenading me as I wake, but honestly! 6am? Come on Bill! Hit the snooze! ...I did..twice. Rolling out of bed, I poured a bowl of cereal and started in to work. Again, a long multi-job, many-houred day. And I love what I do, but this week annually is the most exhausting of my life.
I had a small margin of time (it's a long story, isn't it?!) to run to Wal-Mart on my "free period" , grab the paints I needed for a trash can project for the city I'm doing with the kids, and bolt back to school to set up. Poor Frank had the speed of Socrates deliberating his trail in Athens. I felt my hand clutching for my phone/watch in my pants pocket. My fingers hastily pressing the home key and watching the minutes speed by -- still not done! Almost ready to snap at Frank the laid back associate, who had taken time to strike up an idle conversation with a Wal-Mart regular -- I spied them. Logs! Log upon Log upon Log. Stacked duraflame high to the sky and rising from behind a multi-tiered display. I thought to myself -- the Gods must be smiling...and laughing...and dizzy with glee watching me get all worked up and tizzied just to drop flaming logs on my pity party parade and rain it out.
So what did I do? I took my phone out, looked at the time. Laughed, at the prospect of getting in trouble...then snapped 2 pictures of my lucky totems. I'm commissioning a picture of them. To hang in my house....in every room.
Flamingly Yours,
MB Disco
PS ..and my special message/phrase from the universe?
it's obvious, isnt' it?
Lighten Up
At my last grad school residency at Fort Warden, my hallmate Cara and I had an almost nightly ritual of burning the duraflame log in the old fireplace in my bedroom. My bedroom also happened to be on the second story, lit by chandelier and overlooking the amazing Juan de Fuca strait, rimmed by the Olympic Mountain range and crowned at its mouth by Mt. Baker. No complaints here. Perhaps working with Student Council racked up some extra karma points along the way...but I digress.
Anyhow, Cara and I would sit up, chat, collaborate, decompress and trade dance and singing techniques all while the duraflame log blazed and burned down to tiny coals and ash by morning. I fell asleep to the fire flames dancing and softly crackling in the night. It was my safe haven....and my new karmic calling card to return to that place of light, rest, comfort and safety.
Last night was the first "re-siting" of the logs. After a day that began at 6am, but prefigures the Easter And Passion Week to come, I was still starved, exhausted and foodless at home. After my fourth "job" of the day, I was cruising the aisles of the Downtown Harris Teeter; me, teetering on the edge of harried -- when I saw it -- the logs! Right when I needed a jolt back to that lovely retreat. The duraflame logs were there, winking out at me from behind a display of matches and trash bags. My little eyes lit up and I felt the early bubbling of a giggle. Press...Release.
I made it home, unpacked groceries and eventually fell into bed. I do not recall showering, which is not to say it did not occur, but I was past the point of caring. I'll just wash the sheets more often this week.
Then today. The alarm sounding 6am far too soon. Not that I do not love Bill Frisell serenading me as I wake, but honestly! 6am? Come on Bill! Hit the snooze! ...I did..twice. Rolling out of bed, I poured a bowl of cereal and started in to work. Again, a long multi-job, many-houred day. And I love what I do, but this week annually is the most exhausting of my life.
I had a small margin of time (it's a long story, isn't it?!) to run to Wal-Mart on my "free period" , grab the paints I needed for a trash can project for the city I'm doing with the kids, and bolt back to school to set up. Poor Frank had the speed of Socrates deliberating his trail in Athens. I felt my hand clutching for my phone/watch in my pants pocket. My fingers hastily pressing the home key and watching the minutes speed by -- still not done! Almost ready to snap at Frank the laid back associate, who had taken time to strike up an idle conversation with a Wal-Mart regular -- I spied them. Logs! Log upon Log upon Log. Stacked duraflame high to the sky and rising from behind a multi-tiered display. I thought to myself -- the Gods must be smiling...and laughing...and dizzy with glee watching me get all worked up and tizzied just to drop flaming logs on my pity party parade and rain it out.
So what did I do? I took my phone out, looked at the time. Laughed, at the prospect of getting in trouble...then snapped 2 pictures of my lucky totems. I'm commissioning a picture of them. To hang in my house....in every room.
Flamingly Yours,
MB Disco
PS ..and my special message/phrase from the universe?
it's obvious, isnt' it?
Lighten Up
Wednesday, March 24
What are we fighting for?
So two weeks into rehearsals for Trailer Park and I still am amazed at the difficulties of being a human being -- our bodies and souls are such precious cargo and we fight tooth and nail to protect ourselves from outside hurts. All of us put up such walls to keep others out, but we just end up lonely and tired and tense on the inside -- all that effort, and what gain?
Of course this is all tongue in cheek, foot in mouth, humble pie on plate because I feel these very challenges so acutely. Shoot, I have trouble painting a true feeling word each day in my journal. The hesitation between picking up my brush, dipping it in ink and then hovering -- poised over the page -- illustrates my very disconnection from myself. I keep hoping for greater flow. I've started wetting the paper before applying ink so that I can let things drip and run down the page. I've used hairdryers, gravity, my breath, agitation -- anything to move the ink around and try to shake up the things inside me that hold tight instead of letting go. All of this played out on the page, in the hopes that the journal art-making will prove to be an efficacious process.
I used this movement technique at rehearsal last night:
Kept em agitated, moving -- ceaseless running around and gyrating and unadulterated grooving to shake the true voice out of folks. Know what? It worked. Always does. It amazes me how gratifying movement and vocal release feel as opposed to the typical sit still, remain stiff, closed jaw stance that most of us assume 99% of the time.
I have always wondered what it would be like to walk around with a personal masseuse for a week; That every time you started accumulating tension, someone was there to correct you. I shared the cellular yielding exercises with the cast last night. I hope they take the time to read and ponder -- but just in case they don't, I'm using a bit of the technique with them coupled with the "masseuse for a day" idea. A little lying on the ground, head release, cranial sacral, toes kneading the shoulders, hands jostling upper chest and neck tension goes a long way. I remember thinking when I first got the Dove Sono that if I could convince "Bob" to do that for me that the progress would have been infinitely simpler and quicker. It's nice to be able to "gift" that to others.
Just letting someone hold your head. It is so peaceful -- so perfectly heavenly but yet such an act of trust. It is a true gift they give you but one not easily won. I'm going to continue meeting with folks and doing the "headwork" required to loosen up the body and free "the voce".
____________________________________
Meanwhile...I need to find my "Slovenka." Sometimes I wonder if by releasing others of tension that you begin storing it in yourself. I need to find a way to process that out. Maybe some big "found object canvases" outside would do the trick. Some full bodied, "em bodied" painting and musical expression may be in order next week. Some Passionate Art to celebrate Passion Week at work. Hmmmmmm.......
Of course this is all tongue in cheek, foot in mouth, humble pie on plate because I feel these very challenges so acutely. Shoot, I have trouble painting a true feeling word each day in my journal. The hesitation between picking up my brush, dipping it in ink and then hovering -- poised over the page -- illustrates my very disconnection from myself. I keep hoping for greater flow. I've started wetting the paper before applying ink so that I can let things drip and run down the page. I've used hairdryers, gravity, my breath, agitation -- anything to move the ink around and try to shake up the things inside me that hold tight instead of letting go. All of this played out on the page, in the hopes that the journal art-making will prove to be an efficacious process.
I used this movement technique at rehearsal last night:
Kept em agitated, moving -- ceaseless running around and gyrating and unadulterated grooving to shake the true voice out of folks. Know what? It worked. Always does. It amazes me how gratifying movement and vocal release feel as opposed to the typical sit still, remain stiff, closed jaw stance that most of us assume 99% of the time.
I have always wondered what it would be like to walk around with a personal masseuse for a week; That every time you started accumulating tension, someone was there to correct you. I shared the cellular yielding exercises with the cast last night. I hope they take the time to read and ponder -- but just in case they don't, I'm using a bit of the technique with them coupled with the "masseuse for a day" idea. A little lying on the ground, head release, cranial sacral, toes kneading the shoulders, hands jostling upper chest and neck tension goes a long way. I remember thinking when I first got the Dove Sono that if I could convince "Bob" to do that for me that the progress would have been infinitely simpler and quicker. It's nice to be able to "gift" that to others.
Just letting someone hold your head. It is so peaceful -- so perfectly heavenly but yet such an act of trust. It is a true gift they give you but one not easily won. I'm going to continue meeting with folks and doing the "headwork" required to loosen up the body and free "the voce".
____________________________________
Meanwhile...I need to find my "Slovenka." Sometimes I wonder if by releasing others of tension that you begin storing it in yourself. I need to find a way to process that out. Maybe some big "found object canvases" outside would do the trick. Some full bodied, "em bodied" painting and musical expression may be in order next week. Some Passionate Art to celebrate Passion Week at work. Hmmmmmm.......
Thursday, March 18
No day but
It is difficult to wake up in the early mornings after beginning night work again...but this time in a slightly older body. Luckily, I am working around college age students and so I plan to draft off of their ceaseless energy and verve. We shall see how that pans out...
Yesterday a happy accident spawned a new performance/art practice. I have not been able to continue on my storytelling project -- the folk oratorio -- since I returned from residency. Not having my weekly rhythm of curling up, bundled under layers of coats, sweaters and scarves in the basement of the Avery is throwing me for a loop. I did not realize the pervasive calm that place infuses in my artistic soul. Alas... I digress as always.
So...the point of this post is storytelling. I had the small children after lunch duty yesterday -- atypical as I usually walk laps around the bustling cafeteria talking with the older kids and sometimes cutting up like one, within the acceptable limits for a teacher. However, fate took a turn and after all the little ones were settled in a fairly quiet mob in the second grade classroom, we made the discovery that the TV was non-functioning. Gasp! 50 kiddies and no movie? What to do? I started talking...then I started telling stories, morphing into a small little leprechaun and weaving stories out of thin air, with my new favorite flowered scarf as my only prop and costume. My interactive leprechaun tale led into my own personal retelling of Rumplestitlskin.
It was a hit. Shining eyes, smiling faces, laughter -- a symphony of joy. I'm doing it again today. And every Wednesday and Thursday that I teach or as often as the administration permits. What I learned from the telling, or rather what it reminded me of is the level of comfort and intimacy you must have with a story to pass it on to others. You must come as close to living it as you can. In other words, I have lots more listening to do at the Avery -- and interviewing and visiting the actual place and listening to the stories in the trees, and the sweetgrass...I'm glad I've been too busy. It was all part of the process...Trust the process.
Art is like taking a ...(you fill in the blank)
MB Disco
Wednesday, March 17
Process Notes
Dear Reader,
(party of 1?)
I, as executor, publisher, and creative disc jockey of this blog have elected to use this as a virtual documentation of my artistic creative process, in the hopes that when it comes time to unleash my manifesto on the world, I will have plenty of text and evidence to draw from my blogged toils, trials, tribulations, and triumphs.
Interested, you are? On the edge of your seat? Is it because you have to pee? Well then go!
Okay, now you're back. So it's time to start the revelations.
Step 1: Despite a life of living out my perfectionist tendencies, my yard has taught me that I make zillions of mistakes all the time. My healthy art process in fact revolves around this very fact that I have made beauty and capitalized on the genius of my mistakes throughout my entire existence. Every slip of a finger leads to something wonderful...every clunker note and voice crack expands into new growth and territory. How have I been so stubborn in accepting myself all these long years? Alas, the time vanishes in the "Aha!" of the transcendental moment.
Step 2: I work well with others, so long as I am allowed plenty of time to myself. However, my struggle with co-dependence in friendships and relationships must be wrestled with and settled if I am to avoid the see-saw of emotions and social acceptance that are also a struggle. I cannot make art for others without first being true to myself. The art comes from that place of somatic self which I then share with others. In the truthful representation and sharing of my experience, I unearth commonalities of that process in others. The personal details are not the focus, but rather the process. Hence, the need to clear up the workings of my own process.
Step 3: I do not need the validation and love of my fellow artists -- particularly those of the opposite sex -- in order to feel personal achievement and a sense of meaningful purpose in an artistic existence. In fact, this leads to pleasing others before being true to self. Back to Step 2!
Step 4: I do not have to do anything. I choose to do things. Money may be a motivator, but it is no longer my personal artistic scapegoat for making poor and/or fearful decisions.
Step 5: I must must MUST leave Charleston or wherever "home" is for personal, artistic, and world perspective. Cultural identity cannot be escaped so much as expanded. Stamp that passport sister!
Step 6: I am my greatest enemy. If I do not treat myself with great love, understanding and compassion, I will not mirror those traits to the world.
Step 7: How I live is my art. We are all artists. I can learn as much from my garbage man as the next Van Gogh or John Cage. (see Plato and Heraclitus if you don't believe me)
Step 8: I like transcendentalism, metaphor, and existentialism. You don't have to like them too.
Step 9: Having fun is essential to making art.
Step 10: Sleep. Get enough.
Step 11: Because nobody stops at 11 -- so why not!? And that's the last step. Nobody, Nothing stops. Even silence is a continuation. Mountain pose is the opposite of stillness. Do not be deceived: all pauses, all waiting, all stillness, all silence -- it is active and motive.
Over and ...Over,
MB Disco
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