If a train from Albuquerque is headed north at 30 miles an hour while a train from Reno falls in the woods, did it make the SATs seem a little more relevant?
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
That small blue room in that big yellow house
I miss that small blue room in that big yellow house--18 full years.
Smells
Memories
Tastes
Desires
Compulsion
Confusions
Loves
Raids
Rage
Heart
Compassion
Futility
Impotence
Idealism
Letter-writing
Re-arranging
Martian landing
Understanding
Legos
Tacs on the ground
Sports posters
Band posters
Crayola films
Playmobile
Map of The Shire
My Shire
My Home
My Own
Now in a different yellow (ish) house in a (very) different hood in a (still) different blue room trying to piece together fears and joys and the space in between.
Lust
Love
Fear
Hope
Denial
Change
Aggression
Repression
Obsession
The Human impulse to return to a new but (monumentally) different town from which I'm from.
To flee where people will forget about me.
To convince myself my current state "isn't that bad."
What happened to those dreams from that perfect blue room in that lovely yellow house.
The characters of a life that were tried in in play.
The rythm of a life that we made up in a jingle.
The infinite yet actually and simultaneously finite reality that existed in that special space where instead of life happening to me, I happened to life.
It didn't see it coming.
The Dreams that came from that play toy train with the little felt trees that blew in the fake breeze created by my mouth to simulate a world, a microcosm, a universe of possibilities.
The thing that life cannot live without is play. Life would be miserable if silliness was outlawed--we'd all turn into Cowboys making each other laugh with squirt guns like bootleggers escaping the law in this new universe we created with a new sun.
So whether I'm in a big yellow house in s small blue room or a tiny grey room in a small apartment or a train car in the middle, or in the middle of a rainy day of the soul--
That small blue room in that big yellow house will always travel along with me.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Toyota
When I was a kid, I thought my dad was a really progressive guy because he always took his car to the Japanese-Auto Repair Shop.
I thought:
"wow, my Dad is friends with everyone, even the kind Japanese people at the Auto-Repair Shop."
The truth is, he drove a Toyota that needed to be serviced at (you guessed it) the Japanese...Auto...Repair Shop...
I believed many things as a child.
I thought:
"wow, my Dad is friends with everyone, even the kind Japanese people at the Auto-Repair Shop."
The truth is, he drove a Toyota that needed to be serviced at (you guessed it) the Japanese...Auto...Repair Shop...
I believed many things as a child.
Landscapes
The landscape reveals the landscape of life--
so in the same way the landscape is momentous and dangerous and beautiful and thrilling and exotic and fun--
So it goes with life.
so in the same way the landscape is momentous and dangerous and beautiful and thrilling and exotic and fun--
So it goes with life.
Hoodwinked in Paris
Don't let them put that bracelet on you.
If you ever go to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Paris, Franceland-- you'll be offered a bracelet by a few SUPER amiable African dudes.
DON'T LET THEM PUT THE BRACELET ON YOU.
In my ignorant naivety, I thought, as they promised me, that this process of getting a bracelet upon the steps of this pretty church was all part of "tradition."
Did I mention they were amiable? Seriously. These folks should be teaching charisma classes or something different than trying to hoodwink dumb tourists into spending 40 euro on a bracelet that cost 5 cents to make.
I ended up giving the dude 20 euro, barely realizing what I was doing. I was hoodwinked at this church is Paris that I could barely pronounce the name of with my anglo-irish-californian mouth.
I go in the church, the mood is somber but I am IRATE!
But the minute I turned back to find the crafty African dudes-- they were gone. It was amazing. I was angry and I also couldn't help but being little impressed.
They turned me into a huge sucker that day. They totally won.
If you ever go to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Paris, Franceland-- you'll be offered a bracelet by a few SUPER amiable African dudes.
DON'T LET THEM PUT THE BRACELET ON YOU.
In my ignorant naivety, I thought, as they promised me, that this process of getting a bracelet upon the steps of this pretty church was all part of "tradition."
Did I mention they were amiable? Seriously. These folks should be teaching charisma classes or something different than trying to hoodwink dumb tourists into spending 40 euro on a bracelet that cost 5 cents to make.
I ended up giving the dude 20 euro, barely realizing what I was doing. I was hoodwinked at this church is Paris that I could barely pronounce the name of with my anglo-irish-californian mouth.
I go in the church, the mood is somber but I am IRATE!
But the minute I turned back to find the crafty African dudes-- they were gone. It was amazing. I was angry and I also couldn't help but being little impressed.
They turned me into a huge sucker that day. They totally won.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Thresholds, a poem
Thresholds upon thresholds
Under which my flesh holds
Tightly to my bones, surviving
Though not quite thriving
As I slowly walk alone
On this large spinning stone
Searching for a Home.
Under which my flesh holds
Tightly to my bones, surviving
Though not quite thriving
As I slowly walk alone
On this large spinning stone
Searching for a Home.
An Intern Prepares by Riley Shtanishlavskihan
Introduction: A Brief and Honest History
In 1936 Constantin Stansislavski of the Moscow Art Theatre published a book called An Actor Prepares, which became lauded as one of the first versions of "stage acting for dummies."
Chapter 1: The Nitty and The Gritty Tid Bittys of Theater Intern-ing
Since I have had a lot of experience in the past year being an acting intern in professional theaters in Seattle, I thought it was about time to pass on my wisdom of this complex art to the next generation. After all, I am twenty-three years old and have already worked two jobs free of charge right after college...my parents (though they don't show it) must be really proud of my arts degree so far.
Now, it takes many things to become an intern. First, you need to know how to brew coffee. See, if you don't know how to do this task, don't even bother coming out for the job.
Second, you need to be asked to do the internship by someone who works at a theater company. To do this, you need an EMAIL ADDRESS...I learned this one the hard way!
I know what you're probably thinking: he is moving way to fast, this is just too much information to take in all at once! I know--it becomes pretty overwhelming being an intern but with my guidance and with 3 easy payments of $9.99, you can learn how to master the art of working free forever.
At the end of each chapter, I'll have discussion questions for your book club to review what we've learned thus far:
1. If I don't have an email, is there another way to contact people that doesn't involve hi-tech?
2. If I know how to steep tea but not brew coffee, am I out of the running for an intern job?
3. What is the average retirement age for theater interns?
4. If I land the internship and one of the leads in the show starts talking to me for some reason, do I address them as I would the Queen of England or the Czar of Russia? In short, do I bow or do I shake their hand?
All this and MORE in chapter 2!
In 1936 Constantin Stansislavski of the Moscow Art Theatre published a book called An Actor Prepares, which became lauded as one of the first versions of "stage acting for dummies."
Chapter 1: The Nitty and The Gritty Tid Bittys of Theater Intern-ing
Since I have had a lot of experience in the past year being an acting intern in professional theaters in Seattle, I thought it was about time to pass on my wisdom of this complex art to the next generation. After all, I am twenty-three years old and have already worked two jobs free of charge right after college...my parents (though they don't show it) must be really proud of my arts degree so far.
Now, it takes many things to become an intern. First, you need to know how to brew coffee. See, if you don't know how to do this task, don't even bother coming out for the job.
Second, you need to be asked to do the internship by someone who works at a theater company. To do this, you need an EMAIL ADDRESS...I learned this one the hard way!
I know what you're probably thinking: he is moving way to fast, this is just too much information to take in all at once! I know--it becomes pretty overwhelming being an intern but with my guidance and with 3 easy payments of $9.99, you can learn how to master the art of working free forever.
At the end of each chapter, I'll have discussion questions for your book club to review what we've learned thus far:
1. If I don't have an email, is there another way to contact people that doesn't involve hi-tech?
2. If I know how to steep tea but not brew coffee, am I out of the running for an intern job?
3. What is the average retirement age for theater interns?
4. If I land the internship and one of the leads in the show starts talking to me for some reason, do I address them as I would the Queen of England or the Czar of Russia? In short, do I bow or do I shake their hand?
All this and MORE in chapter 2!
Friday, January 23, 2015
Just a Little Parisian Business
Later that day, it became night (naturally) and during the night I was still walking around, wandering. I wandered down a darker, less populated street and locked eyes with a portly, 40ish woman sitting in her car about a block away. As I approached, she rolled down her window to talk to me. I didn't know what she was saying. We didn't speak each others languages. She finds out I'm speaking English and whilst patting her upper chest she says to me in a flat, un-assuming tone: "busy-ness sect?" "What," I respond. I begin to think of the business section of Paris to see if I can give her directions...
She says it again: "business sect?"
"What?"
I still have no clue what she is trying to say to me.
"Business sex"
"What?"
"With me- business sex."
"Oh! No- no- no- no, thank you. No"
I scurried away and a block later, laugh my ass off as I realize what just happened.
Welcome to paris, I guess?
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
We are hard-wired to stay alive
We are hard-wired to live, be living, and stay alive.
I saw a woman jump onto I-5 in Seattle from melrose avenue.
I was one of maybe three people who saw her do it.
One leg over
What's that?
Two legs
Oh fuck!
Crawls down to hang by her hangs
NONONONONO
That moment when she jumped will never leave my mind.
Swoosh.
Fell.
Fast.
First thought I had: she's dead.
FUCKFUCKFUCK
I ran over to where she had jumped.
I looked down.
It. Was. A. Long. Way. Down...
50, 60, maybe 70 feet.
4 or 5 stories worth of fall that happened quicker than you can crag an egg.
I looked down as this unmoving body.
She fell on the white line on the roadside where there was a crack on the asphalt she was slowly filling with blood.
Helpless.
Another man called 911 while I stared, incromprehensobld.
We were meant to live,
Were we not?
1001 thoughts rush to my head immediately.
How could a human being come to a place in life where the only logical option left was to commit suicide? To take their own life?
SHE MOVED.
She's moving!, I screamed.
Close to death,
I'm sure
But moving.
We are, indeed, hardwired to live and not die. Her body crawled back to life after being hurdled down into asphalt at a quick speed.
All these worries and doubts and fears I have about death or accidents or cancer are not without merit (because those things happen) but without reasonable cause (ie, doctor tells me to worry) then why would I worry about living when, every single moment, my body is subconsciously staying alive.
We are the stuff of miracles if we stare long enough.
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