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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.  

There's a bird in JFK

Ah, to be a rogue bird in an airport.

How did it fly in?

A crack or hole in the wall?

A door left open or hinged for too long?

A pet that broke free from its cage?

In any event the bird becomes liberated from his ordinary world and becomes spectacle because it is in an environment untypical for birds but typical for humans pretending to be birds as we fly from Tampa to Haiti or whatever.  So it goes.

We see the bird and laugh with people we've never met and never will meet about that rogue bird at gate 11 in JFK on a Wednesday.

What does it mean to be this bird?

What is the human correlative to its peculiar situation/adventure/life?

The bird has made a nest in the fluorescents. 

It doesn't really like the speaker yelling in muffled, Inharmonious tones right next to his new home but it likes that it's the star of the airport- constantly getting attention by random passerbys- the true goal in life for any living thing, right?  

...I was gunna tell somebody about the bird- somebody that could set it free- somebody who worked at the airport.  But what if JFK is this birds "free?" What if it's here totally intentionally?  What if the bird is actually john f. Kennedy re-incarnated and he just thinks it's tight we named a really posh airport after him?  

Maybe the birds purpose is to bring people together in a common confusion or surprise.

Maybe the bird is a performance artist.  

If I told someone about the bird and it's adventures, that'd be like a fellow hobbit hearing about Frodo trying to throw the ring into the fire and going to tell a local Orc about Frodo's exact location thus not saving middle earth and letting darkness reign cus you were a stickler to people going rogue.  

 For those of you who that reference makes no sense: I only mean- let the bird fly.  Let it do it's thing.  It's on a journey either of exultation for finally making it to its home, JFK, or having an adventure of panic, trying to find the door it flew in through.