I’ve noticed recently that I tend to put an invisible wall up when I see strangers carrying musical instruments on the street or public transit. I think it’s out of a kind of shame for being such a shitty musician; I don’t want to get trapped in a conversation about the instruments I “play”.
Among the everyday occurrences of this and growing up with a military Dad, at one point I spent a year and a half with a sociopathic partner who incorporated this kind of emotional manipulation to cover up his lies.
Though I’ve virtually eliminated this kind of treatment of myself in current times, the PTSD from that horrifying relationship experience, and other significant experiences of emotional nullification, can still significantly overwhelm my interactions.
Man or woman, read about what’s covertly happening to us, and don’t fucking tolerate this being done to you anymore. Use your voice to stand up for yourself, to educate and empower others around you, and take back your emotional body for the intuitive, amazing gift that it is.
A Message to Women From a Man: You Are Not “Crazy”
Posted: 09/12/11 04:34 PM ET
You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already!
Sound familiar?
If you’re a woman, it probably does.
Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?
When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling — that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple.
And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.
I think it’s time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation, and we need to use a word not found in our normal vocabulary.
I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.
Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.
The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.
Today, when the term is referenced, it’s usually because the perpetrator says things like, “You’re so stupid,” or “No one will ever want you,” to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer’s character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman’s character into believing herself unhinged.
The form of gaslighting I’m addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.
Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction — whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness — in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.
My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, “You’re so sensitive. I’m just joking.”
My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot down her performance and her work product. Comments like, “Can’t you do something right?” or “Why did I hire you?” are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn’t know from these comments that Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says, “It doesn’t help me when you say these things,” she gets the same reaction: “Relax; you’re overreacting.”
Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it’s exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.
But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, “You’re so sensitive,” to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, the speaker is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.
While dealing with gaslighting isn’t a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.
And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.
Why?
Because women bare the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.
It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.
Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: It renders some women emotionally mute.
These women aren’t able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can’t tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can’t tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.
When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, “Forget it, it’s okay.”
That “forget it” isn’t just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It’s heartbreaking.
No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.
They say, “I’m sorry,” before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.
You know how it looks: “You’re late :)”
These are the same women who stay in relationships they don’t belong in, who don’t follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.
Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as “crazy” has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.
From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.
Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, “Oh, about how crazy we are?”
Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.
As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.
I don’t think this idea that women are “crazy,” is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it’s connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as “crazy.”
I recognize that I’ve been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends–surprise, surprise). It’s shameful, but I’m glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.
While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It’s about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.
When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.
When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, “The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.”
So for many of us, it’s first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.
But isn’t the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women’s opinions don’t hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn’t quite as legitimate?
Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.
There’s this time in every significant relationship where things are simply dripping in awesome. Life is flowing through everything you do with one another, you stand stronger on your own, the layers you skillfully peel away together reveal excitement, reverence and possibility. The processes are as enjoyable as the outcomes and it’s impossible to not at least occasionally catch yourself wishing and hoping that you may have found a fountain of perpetual fairy tale bliss that may just never have to end.
And then someone fucks up. And shit gets real.
In the most recent case, that someone was me. I found this detail highly inconvenient. It’s usually not me, at least not the first significant trial, but regardless of when it happens, the first time I royally screw up signifies a very particular point in the everlasting, yet constantly progressing cycle that is my relationship with relationships. It signifies a very important and basic test, a subconscious impulse that demands verification: Is this thing real.
One side of a coin is not a real coin. Until you suffer challenge together, you don’t know the strength you may have in a bond. But until you’ve suffered the inevitable fallibility in the other person, until you know what that looks like, and how they handle themselves, and you, when it happens, you don’t know if that bond even truly exists. At least, I don’t. Or at least, some small hologram that periodically takes the wheel inside me doesn’t.
So, that happened. I fucked up and it broke us both open and we were awesome and authentic about it and continue to progress as individuals and as a couple because of it. I’m not proud of it but I’ve worked through the vast majority of my guilt regarding my actions and I continue to learn a little bit more every few days.
I demand integrity and truthfulness and breadth in my significant interpersonal experiences. But real, as much as I covet and search for and insist upon it, is god damn fucking scary. She wants you to fail that test. She wants to stay right, to have (job) security, to stay alive, to keep doing what she knows and does so well it’s almost sickening: Protecting the rest of me. And she’s incessant, she’s crafty and wise and skeptical, she’s righteous and wants to be right because her being right inevitably means less hurt.
And that’s who bursting the bubble makes real, inside, for me. That’s when the shadows step in. That’s when insecurity starts nipping away at my confidence, when I start periodically shutting down emotionally and not knowing why, when I become ambivalent and oscillate between intense attachment and wanting the fuck out. Cause once it’s real, I have something to lose. Something else to invest in, give myself to, protect and foster and fight for, and fucking lose. And that just fucks up everything. She’s on. She’s fucking AWAKE. And it permeates everything in my life. I periodically want to leave my job, stop teaching aerial, give up music, get rid of all my shit, and disappear. Travel light. Travel light, and survive.
I used to think it was all guilt. Once I stepped out of my integrity with someone, and treated them poorly in some way, the guilt ate my resolve away. I thought I felt muted and inconsistent because I deserved to for whatever it was I did, whatever thing I inflicted in my fucked up gauntlet I make the people close to me run. And I could imagine all kinds of things, even things that I hadn’t even done yet and may never do, that made me a bad person and a bad partner who was better off, and made others better off, alone.
As well as I’m able to see this stuff in a relatively short timeframe, I’m still blindsided the test. It wouldn’t be a subconscious thing if I wasn’t, but god damn it if I don’t feel like I should see it coming. I’ve figured out that I feel muted and inconsistent afterwards because I’m threatened somehow, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less natural when it happens. I’m just being me, and everything feels fine. Monosaturated, but fine.
I finally saw her today. She’s about 12, with long, stringy, dirty blond hair. She’s wet, and cold, and dirty, standing inside a stone cave, Indiana Jones style. She’s holding something, like a torch or a specter, stationed outside a huge, heavy door. She’s collected, logical, matter of fact and appears unphasable, but there’s a look in her face that tells you she’ll tear your jaw off with her teeth if you step sideways at her too quickly. She radiates old soul, intimidation, and is undeniably smarter than you.
She’s the part of me that mama bears. She’s the one who stands up for the people around her because no one stood up for her. She’s the child that was so impressively mature. She’s constantly tense, constantly on guard. She’s intense and serious. She doesn’t sleep. She’s defined by her duty and by what lies behind that door. She’s the one who understands that there’s always a motive for someone to attack and try to steal what she’s charged to protect. She’s wrung out and full of endurance at the same time. She’s emotionally muted because she has to concentrate, obsessed with finding a breaking point and getting rid of you. And she has no fucking idea what it is she’s guarding.
All the time I’ve known about this test, from the first “I’ll try to run eventually” warning I gave to this last “Aww, man, not again — What the fuck did I do that for?!”, I thought it was about the staying. It’s always been about the staying.
Can they? Will they? Now? What about now? Oop, apparently it was time to test again, agh, I’m such a jerk. What, you’re still here? Really? Why? Sheesh, you’re fucking stupid. Again! Again again! .. This is boring. You know what, just.. nevermind.
The test is never satisfied because it’s not about the staying. I want it to be that easy, and for a long time I’ve stayed in some version of this corrosive loop where the all-telling test us supposed to solve everything and prove I’m capable of becoming comfortable being close with someone, if I just run it one. More. Time.
But it’s not. It’s about all the other shit that comes after the staying. All that scary shit I actually want.
And it’s all behind that door.
Another ingenious, beautiful, incredibly effective, creative, awe inspiring, bulldog stubborn, self inflicted fucking masterpiece of a booby trap.
The other day, my friend Sophia updated her twitter with “It’s amazing how being caged quiets my anxieties.”
I took a great pause when I read this and felt an instant kinship to what was said. I’ve been spinning into a long chain of thought that is still moving through me, searching for the point of origin that caused her sentiment to stab straight into my core.
I think of myself as being free, and needing to be free, to function. The concept of being caged makes my stomach churn and my talons protract. I’ll rip anyone’s throat out who tries. I’d probably fight so hard I’d break myself if someone did, actually, manage to fight me into a cage. I can feel my back lighting up just thinking about it.
Last winter, when I was dealing with one of the worst depressive episodes of my life, I talked about the internet, and wondered aloud if its existence as my main social avenue when I was young hindered or enabled my ability to interact with people. I was met with a visual, provided by my best friend, who said something to the effect that I’d hidden away somewhere dark and controlled and safe, and through the computer I reached out my hand to see who would take hold of it.
I’m frequently struck by the bravery in Sophia’s posts, how openly she talks about being vulnerable or scared, knowing how hard that is for me. I do it, but it’s often terrifying, I’m usually shaking and crying and imagining the intense, merciless judgement I’ll surely receive for having weakness. I just.. say it anyway.
That judgement never happens. It has never, ever happened. Even back in the days of phuqed, when I was a dumbshit kid blaming the entire world for everything that was wrong with my life, I have never been ripped into like I constantly expect to be when I’m all feared up, desperate and aching for someone to show me they know what I know.
It’s subsiding as I age, and yet, I still feel it, and I identify with that fear every time I conquer it — which is nearly always, now — and savor the relief when the support comes. I’m learning that I can count on that, that I can show these parts of myself in front of people, and even moreso — that if support doesn’t come, I can count on me.
This place is my cage when I need one. And I damn well like having it.
Thanks, Sophia.
(P.S. I just realized like 6 hours after posting this that the youtube video frame looks like… a cage. Wow.)
Summary video of my two week solo road trip, taken from my laptop webcam over the course of the 2500 mile drive. The music is Desert, Day 1, from the Fallout: New Vegas Soundtrack — which is excellent driving music, by the way.
This was, roughly, the route I took. There were a few stops I didn’t map that were within a few miles of other destinations or along the way.
I took a fair number of pictures in the first week, and not so many after that.
My deepest gratitude goes to my friends and family for all that they did — cars, equipment, meals, hotels, support, interest, text messages, emergency kits, parties, massages, cuddles, movies, phone calls, crash spaces, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, music, lock picks, books, advice, appreciation, excitement, and much more — to make this trip the profoundly therapeutic epic healing catharsis it became. I don’t have pictures of everyone who contributed, (um.. there were women too. Really!) but here are a few. Thank you.
Throughout my life, I periodically run into people who are infuriatingly incapable of taking responsibility for themselves. Even when acknowledging that there shouldn’t be one, there’s always a reason, an excuse, some kind of explanation as to why what happens in their life and the effects their decisions have on others ultimately aren’t their actual fault, really.
When a persons inability to own themselves and their mistakes effects me personally, this behavior arouses my deep, penetrating anger. I find it insulting and calculatingly offensive. I see it as inexcusably dishonest to claim ownership of yourself and still behave like a fucking wimp. Sometimes, I find myself yelling obscenities and colorful insults like ‘flaming sack of curdled assbarf’, and ‘dicksnot’, and wishing death via car fire upon these types of people. In jest, of course – but seriously, fuck these fucking impotent shit spewing fuckers.
I like my anger. It’s funny, it’s effective, and it helps me get motivated when action is necessary — but it’s not always the most useful aspect of coping. The sooner I can let the slew of cuss words out somewhere, the faster I slow down and remember when I was incapable of comprehending how I manipulated and controlled my surroundings through what was, ultimately, emotional retardation. I recognize, while I sometimes see it as malicious and lazy in other people, how rarely it was about that when I was constantly failing myself no matter how hard I tried to be a good person.
I remember how incessantly difficult it was, and how much raw will power, determination and resiliency it took to pull my head out of my ass. How I spent 10 years before that moment running around digging trenches in my psyche looking for evidence of my villainy, having convinced myself that what I was doing was good inner work.
I remember when it made sense to stay stupid, to remain confused, to sabotage my life and my progress in order to avoid responsibility for the neglected brilliance I was pissing away. I remember, as I wanted to grow out of my skin so much I’d slice it open myself, how being that person allowed me to wallow in safety, and to hide.
I was like a beaten dog pressed into a corner, shivering, snapping and displaying for anyone who dared the mange and sunken eyes. I wanted it. Occasionally, people got bit, and I felt for them. But being wretched let me shirk my tasks as a human being, and for a long time, being stunted and dim was worth it.
I remember how crushed I was when I realized that I lacked the ability to be cause in the matter of my own life because of how little I believed in myself. How guilty I felt when I realized that deep down, I’d been blaming the people I loved for that deprivation inside me. For not understanding me when, frankly, I didn’t understand me, or the true motivations for holding myself down.
I remember how sobering and scary it was when I finally conjured the courage to face, and act upon the answers, to the questions I had been asking myself. How big the world became when I saw the potential influence I could have from a place of inner strength, when I’d mostly just reacted and seen myself as a shallow robotic shell trapped in a vicious loop.
I remember the weight in realizing that embodied living meant the real work I’d finally stepped into was never going to be over. I remember wondering how long it would take to feel better, and being terrified of what little might be left of me once I escaped the strangle hold of my sadness.
I still feel echos of that struggle, scanning for that terrible evil person that would make some kind of sick sense of why life can be so god damn hard. I remember overcoming being enslaved by that debilitating mindset and paying my fucking dues revisiting that place, thinking I could save others from it. And now, in my 30′s, when I see my peers still pulling the same shit I did when I was 20, I get annoyed. Sometimes I get hurt. And then I get angry. And then, I get compassionate.
Wing Chun was the perfect movie to watch tonight. Thank you, Sophia.
Hm. In revisiting my last post (sometimes I revisit them periodically for the first day or two to keep checking in whether I want it public or not) I just noticed another change in how I interact with the internet — I no longer post things as members only if I realize I only want one or two people to be unable to see it. Expressing myself to a public audience when I think a stranger might actually benefit from what I have to say has become more important to me than protecting myself or someone else from looking like a dickhead. Huh. Wonder what that’s all about. Maybe neevita will eventually go public like phuqed was.
Sean made me wonder in his comment on “Of Hope and Romance” about The One. I had already been thinking about the shape of my relationships throughout my life, how I engage, fall, bond, and break away. How it feels, how I almost crave the journeys through my relationships knowing they will probably end, how I seem to get off on the first breakup and enjoy engaging in that intense test of a relationship. I must enjoy it — I’ve only made a clean break once, and I’ve been a part of quite a few failed romances.
Each and every one has been an artistic goldmine in some fashion, whether it be a slew of productivity or a giant leap in my understanding of myself as a lifeforce. The coping is almost a reward, a sickening, twisted, sinfully painful fucking amazing learning and growth experience that I get to express to people and release into the world and touch lives with.
Making my art feels the best when I’m screaming it into someone’s aching ear, and I think I make my best art over heartache.
I think my art may be The One. I am incapable of staying unattached and also incapable of attaching. I fear no mere mortal stands a chance at more than two years entwined with me, but I do wonder how my existence would be altered were I to view my muse as my primary relationship. Would I be embracing reality, or self fulfilling the prophecy that I will be searching and churning for sustainable, passionate love the rest of my days?
What the fuck kind of fucking weirdass life am I living here?
Every once in a while, it really hits me just how much of myself I put out there in some ways, and just how little I do in others.
Also; I find it really fascinating that while phuqed/neevita used to be the first wave, and then I would decide what to put on LJ/facebook, it’s now reversed. Maybe it’s because I wipe my facebook wall periodically, and keep what I put here — or that somewhere deep in me, I actually trust facebooks privacy settings with those instant, meandering streams of consciousness?
Just as I was leaving from tea with a friend today, something fell into place, and I recognized a recent pattern in my life on a deeper level.
The universe really wants me to understand something about death.
The cycle started in September when I flew off by bike going 25mph downhill with no gear, helmet or protection, striking three separate (and very hard) obstacles – and yet, all I had was a broken elbow (and a neck so out of whack it took my chiropractor 4 months of consistent care to admit how scared he was to adjust me the first time).
It continued very shortly thereafter with a depression that slowly, mercilessly degraded to deep, paralyzing suicidal thoughts.
And again with the death of my partnership, and again with revisiting the death of my relationship with my mother and some of the many unresolved aspects of that loss, and the compulsion toward bloodwork.
And again when after two days on them and still being atrociously sick, I, in all seriousness, really had to sit down and consider that the antibiotics may not kick in and stop the infection that was spreading from my sinuses into my eyes and, potentially, to my brain.
And now most recently in the form of a virtually instantaneous, intense and tender connection with someone who’s calling, which I have been (until now) puzzlingly fascinated by, is .. wait for it .. facilitating funerals.
I’m no stranger to close calls. I’ve had them most of my life. From getting run off the road by a semi with my dad when I was in second grade, to flatlining in the ER when I was 15, to breaking my back falling out of the air when I was 26, it seems like reminders of my mortality (and sometimes it seems my lack thereof) are simply part of what it is for me to exist.
Something is different, here, though. Something intangible, something I can just feel, something that caused my stunned and staring eyes to well when I recognized this pattern in the last 6 months of my life.
I feel like I’m stepping deeper into the knowing field, that place I touch when I can’t give myself credit for where the art comes from, and what fuels the deepest parts of my art is about to truly become my life.
And now I find myself inexplicably shivering cold, right into my bones. Intense. Jesus.
Came across this post from last summer while admining and wanted to repost – some food for thought on psychological distress, as well. Drowning doesn’t often look like drowning then, either.
The Instinctive Drowning Response – so named by Francesco A. Pia, Ph.D., is what people do to avoid actual or perceived suffocation in the water. And it does not look like most people expect. There is very little splashing, no waving, and no yelling or calls for help of any kind.
Lesson learned: Long-term deeply discounted gimmicks + self limiting physically challenging business model = eventual financial disaster. I hope whoever made Groupon 5 grand for an hours worth of work mocking up my ad a year ago at least broke a nail or something.
*** I started writing this as an email to my cast and crew, and realized it belonged here instead. ***
As the show approaches, and the meetings we have scheduled creep nearer, I’ve been thinking about what I have to offer. What, as a director and space holder, I have to contribute to the telling of stories and sharing of experiences on that subtle, transformative level I strive for in my directorial work.
The people involved in this show are so talented, brave, competent and focused. I’ve so rarely concerned over the acts and workshops themselves I can’t think of a single time I was stressing over just them. The show lineup is brilliant. It’s diverse, touching, inspiring, moving, hopeful, painful, intense, real, amusing – even if i simply put them on stage one at a time in an order, we will touch peoples lives.
Yet, I’ve been wondering how to offer what I’m best at while sensing a lack of cohesion. I’ve struggled with how to put all of these first class ingredients together with the rehearsal time we have and the flexibility we need to pull off both adaptations of the show. And, realistically, I have to be prepared for the first time I have all my cast in the same room being our tech rehearsal the day before the show.
I’ve had creeping doubts, thoughts of this beautiful project ending up feeling like pulling my own teeth. Without that meaty, psychological, deep running sound through the foundation, a show is not my show. It’s a string of acts I produce.
Though I trust myself and knew it would come to me, and if it wasn’t this time it would still be a good show, I’ve been fearing falling short of what I want to bring to this production as the first of Vita’s offerings I’ve committed to making my own. I’ve wanted to feel I was creating something, and mostly, I’ve felt like the producer and logistic herder than a creative director.
Something clicked today. The difference between a creatively fueling project for me, and something that is successful yet still feels simply like work, is a setting I can relate to as a facilitator that serves as context to work within.
For me, at least right now, the setting that taps what I have to say is the mind. The shows I truly create are ethereal, cerebral, dream like, symbolic, and rarely use dialog or MC’s. They create worlds, go beyond a theme, beyond.. something. Obsidian was a lovers obsessive fantasy. Another untitled show characterizes a tormented mans fractured inner world. A fantasy concept I came to involved multiple personalities in a single being. Simply picking a theme isn’t enough, even a theme as profound as how art saved these people’s lives.
Until today this show was taking place on a stage, with an audience, and now that I say that out loud, it’s no wonder I wasn’t feeling sparked and creative about it. Even the name of the show hasn’t been conducive to my creative process – had it been, I would have simply called it “Saved” or something.
“How Art Saved My Life” now takes place in a collective mind space. The show is an amplified illustration of the moment in time where you stare into a black hole and choose life. The setting is the mind, in dreamspace, plugged into the matrix, whatever you want to think of it. The stories told are amplifications, illustrations, depictions, of that moment, when art saved “you”, and the moments before and after it.
Now, I have an ensemble opening that will take 20 minutes to rehearse. I have a lifeline running through the entirety of the show, an anchor to attach to, and a point of reference to return to as it matures. The show order, while almost unforeseen this morning, is falling into place like an expert tetris level.
It seems so simple, but I truly didn’t know this about myself. I knew something was missing the last two shows I produced and I suspected it was a lack of telling my own story – but I’d performed in Summer Spectacular and I still felt.. thirsty. After Cheese, as much of a success as it was, I felt creative dehydration. I think I just didn’t have a formula for how to get the results I wanted, with the flexibility to include the diversity I wanted to include. And now I do.
This show is going to be fucking amazing. And all the god damn rest of them, too.
I have come to a decision to discontinue expending energy in contemplating how to fit into a smaller space than I have now. I sacrifice and contain myself enough.
It’s amazing the instant calm a good solid mental connection can bring. After untold days of constant battering by emotional waves, it’s as if I found the off switch to the massive shitstorm machine in my little personal universe, simply by putting a 2, and a 2, together. It took days of focused agony and hard, hard work. Is life this fucking difficult for everyone else?