I woke up before the sun yesterday and said goodbye to my friend, sitting on the rocky shore that beat his body lifeless 6 years ago. I’d arrived in Crescent City at night and had yet to see the beach until that morning. When I did see it, my heart sank into a kind of sick, beautiful wonder.
I feel utterly foolish for having spent a week after his plane crash holding out hope that Josh had survived this beach. On the plus side, having finally seen this place, I no longer think he suffered very long in that water once his plane crashed into it. I sat in the car and sobbed thick, heavy tears, for a while, before deciding to head farther south to the public dock to watch the sun come up.
As I walked back to the shore from the dock after the sun broke over the horizon, thinking of how Josh had already missed 6 years of new days and will miss many, many more, I noticed my shadow developing alongside me. It was one of those epiphany type moments that I’ll struggle to articulate for some time, but the sense I got of it was that I could make that shadow be whoever I wanted. I could make it be Josh walking me to my car, or an unknown sense of a hundred spirits, or the sun reminding me I couldn’t possibly be alone in this universe.
And then I thought something about how I live my life reaching for people to stand beside, and how the way I do that will continue to reach them long after I am gone, and how the entirety of my existence is a constant struggle and drive to live as long as possible. Like the Red Violin.
Out of nowhere, “Here comes the sun” leaped into my mind, and I slowly mumbled the chorus, walking with cold beflopped toes along that shit-caked fucker of a dock, back to my car. And I say, it’s alright.
The 101 got considerably less warm and fuzzy feeling as I got deeper into California, but the thing I did really value about taking it vs. the interstate was that periodically I got to slow down and peer onto the surface of some small town. CA-20 and CA-16 were windy and fun, even though everything around me looked dead. I’ve been listening to the Fallout: New Vegas OST a lot while on this drive and it’s contributing a really awesome atmosphere to the whole experience.
As I drove the 355 miles from Crescent City to Sacramento over the course of my day yesterday, my mood digressed more and more. What started out as a deep forest, complete with low hanging fog and a big white sun rising, slowly became rolling hills of desaturated, brittle angst. The closer I got to Sacramento, the more I felt it, and the more what I saw out my window looked like half dead dogshit. I don’t understand how people live here.
I suppose the fucking speeding ticket I got didn’t help, either. Mental note: ZonedNee requires a lead car. I’m looking at the fucking ROAD, not my speedometer, dickhead.
I’d considered moving back to Cali for the weather, but honestly I think that unlikely now that I’m reminded what this place feels like. Perhaps the northern tip, like Crescent City, or southern if it turns out to suck less than I’m expecting, but I will not move back to the northern valley. I can taste the hate in the air.
Last night, I was gifted a hotel room, some sushi, about 5 hours sleep and a TON of laughter by my friend Gordon. Today, witnessing another sun rise, Starbucks is my wingman, as I set out to drive the entirety of the 550+ mile jaunt from Sacramento to Vegas.
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.
When I was about 8 years old, we lived in a trailer on 5 acres of land in the country. Our yard was gated with a big wide metal farm gate that I, as copilot if our little Nissan sentra, was frequently tasked to open.
One day, as I leaned on the side of the car with my open hand, I slammed the door closed (it had to be slammed to latch) onto my thumb. I felt a weird numby stab, realized what I had done, decided I was dumb for having done it, yanked my hand out of the doorjam, and decided I wouldn’t tell my dad what happened all in about a quarter of a second.
I calmly and collectedly walked in front of the car toward the gate as if nothing had happened, for a total of about 5 steps. At that point a wave of unbelievably intense pain washed through me and my legs went out from under me. I doubled over and started screaming, clutching the base of my thumb, watching the rest of it turn purple and swell in front of my eyes. My Dad was pretty confused at first, but very reactive and concerned. He acted in military medicine fashion and stuck my thumb in ice water. Over the next few weeks, I slowly lost my thumbnail. So gross.
When I yanked my hand clear and started walking, I thought ensuredly that i would be fine. And further into my life, this immediate delayed disconnect with pain and damage has continued, even as I’ve learned to know better. When I shaved the tip of my toe off on the sidewalk while taking a full speed corner in sandles. My excessive drug abuse as a teen. After labia surgery when I couldn’t find the incision where I was expecting it. Falling off an rope and breaking my back. After hitting four obstacles downhill on my bike and not realizing I’d broken my elbow. And, most repeatedly, after braving an emotional tide and getting cracked over jagged rocks.
I don’t know where I got this idea that seeing something coming is supposed to make it hurt less. Like watching someone hit me in the face with a bat or piss away my affection with mediocrity and lies is supposed to change the blow for the better somehow. Like it’s supposed to transform the damage into something else and I’m not supposed to have to really fucking feel it. I don’t know where I got it but it’s hard to put down, it’s embedded, even with the mounting evidence that it actually hurts more to get hit in my open eyes than the back of my thick, ignorant head.
Somewhere in that deep baseline of me, I am still that girl who raises her chin, walks 5 steps, and falls the fuck apart anyway.
In 2005, I discovered a movie called The Red Violin, and wrote this post about it. Letting that film take me where it wanted to was one of those experiences where suddenly, and fully, I felt like someone in the world understood me. At the time, I was switching from trick based badassery on rope to storytelling and audience connection on silks, going through therapy for the first time, and grieving. So, it was pretty perfect timing to be open to a little guidance via art.
That Red Violin feeling faded of course, over time, but the influence of that experience didn’t. That influence has been walking with me, slightly behind and inside my shadow, quietly informing how I’ve grown into who I am and what I believe in, along with those core-cutting influences that came before and after it. Like The Matrix, Inception, Donnie Darko, and Batman Begins. And I hope that Obsidian, HASML, Not Applicable and Zita are that as well – core-cutting influences that alter the lives of those who dare to truly see what they are.
I realize now that that film was what planted the seed for bloodwork, which grew out of the death of my most unsettling romance to date three years after seeing it. Before Red Violin, I’d only really heard of raging nutcases and crappy artists slicing themselves to bleed on paper or squatting on a canvas during that time of the month. Both methods were primal and valid but lacked a polish and higher purpose to it that I find needs to be present for me to appreciate. The Red Violin helped me see that there was an element to placing that profound amount of self and energy into physical art that was more eloquent and meaningful to me.
So, last night, I finally hit that bump in the road of interpersonal change, and felt discouraged and lonely. As I loaded up the movie on netflix, remembering the intense connection I felt with the idea of a bereft and lovesick man varnishing the last violin he would ever make in a way that would go on to touch the world for centuries, I realized the closest name I knew for what that was, and something in my guts sank. I updated facebook: I think I might be a god damn hopeless romantic.
How utterly fucking embarrassing. For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was crying out of recognition and understanding or out of disappointment in myself. So I was a bit.. grumpy. Especially when, within a half hour, I had 30 comments on my status entry of the notion “Um.. duh, Courtnee. We all knew that.”.
Like a lot of turns of phrases and concepts, the idea of romanticism has been horribly mangled and molested in our modern, superficial world. When I think of hopeless romantics, I think first of those fucking one-dimensional people with their idealized version of “love” being nothing but positivity and sunshine and fucking cupcakes that don’t make my ass explode, who avoid all life experience besides ‘fun’ and ‘being happy’ and lack the courage to truly LIVE, let alone connect in depth with another human being deserving of being loved for their whole person.
Or worse, I think of those insufferable overdramatic assholes who think a one true soul mate is going to fall down from the sky into their lap, that they’ll recognize it instantly and fall completely and madly into an all-encompassing love that never wavers or changes, and believe they simply DESERVE a happily ever after without any fucking effort or personal responsibility, and throw a petulant crybaby fit if that’s not what they get.
Yeah, so I basically think most people who identify as hopeless romantics are misguided douches, and just haven’t had their eyes open long enough to know better. Which meant these people, my friends, knew I was a delusional asshat and didn’t tell me. Christ. Just let the world end already.
But really, even of the kinds of romantics I mentioned hating up there, I wouldn’t mind being one – if I actually believed consistently that there is ‘someone’ out there for me. I really just don’t. My standards for partnership are high, and yet my chemistry is drawn to weak willed wishy-washy lying fucking jerks. Clearly I’m forever doomed to clumsy polymorphic trigger-shy dating, rewarding but sexless singledom (Oh The HUMANITY!), being in an unfulfilling partnership, or being captivated and dealing with a bunch of inappropriate hurt and horseshit and drama.
Between this and my recent discovery of the Always Broken Goddess, however, I may at least be on track for discovering, and cultivating the foolproof capability of articulating, my deepest emotional and spiritual beliefs. That’s a big step in the right direction and proof, at least to me, that my failed attempts at my ideal romance are giving me lots of good stuff in the long run.
.. *sigh* A long time ago, I thought the key was growing past looking for someone to complete me. Apparently, there’s a lot to it even after that.
Woke up this morning to the electrical flairing in my spine indicative of processing betrayal. It lasted a few minutes and then went away. I remember a time when I was incapable of resolving it and simply spent weeks in grief with my back lit up in a kind of sickening neurological agony. Glad to see my hard inner work pays off.
It’s most often difficult for me to accept that I have a fan base, and I think part of the reason I stay small is the fear surrounding embracing that and what kind of person that makes me. For me to think of myself as a person with fans… I just cringe at the size my ego must be and how much work it would take to keep it appropriately inflated. I know there are people out there with healthy esteem who could recognize fandom without fucking it up somehow but that doesn’t feel like something I have the wisdom to do yet. I’m not ready to handle fame gracefully.
And then I remember, that wisdom is what I’m cultivating in my life right now. Bringing feeling intuition into perspective, reevaluating how much hold I allow it to have on what makes my reality. I read back on that second paragraph up there, and I already don’t agree with myself. I already think it’s silly to be afraid of success like that.
So let me say this, as deeply and sincerely as I ever have; Thank you so much to the fans of my work. I am really blessed to have the kind of encouragement and support I have from the people who’ve noticed what I’m up to in life. You consistently overwhelm and fuel me in ways I couldn’t ever comprehend asking for. Thank you so much for being so generous toward me with your praise.
I can feel another layer of the gnarled, debilitating onion I carry around in my guts being peeled off like a piece of scotch tape against a hairy arm. That’s what sharing my stories with you does for me. That’s the kind of inner work you enable me to accomplish by allowing me into your lives the way you do. It’s inexplicable pure soul sharing and it goes both ways.
I have worked so FUCKING hard peeling at this thing inside me that was fucking my life up, fucking up how I thought, fucking up how I was capable of seeing the world, how I was capable of being with people. I’ve learned so much. And now I use my hard won abilities from that experience to come to meet, and stimulate, the hearts in others.
‘The task of art is to turn tears into knowledge’ – Schopenhauer
I shift lives. That’s what I’ve done with the desperate, massive mindfuck of a place that I came from. I earned this. I want to be doing this. I want to be this person. And I embrace and accept every beautiful thing I was told because of Friday night. Thank you so very much to all the guests and performers who made it an utterly amazing, transformative experience.
I see you guys. Thank you for letting me know you’re watching. I’ll keep on sharing and I’ll keep on kicking ass. For me. And for you.
I fail to recall a time the process of art as coping and healing has been as directly illustrated in my work as it seems to be now. Like the best art I’ve made, it crept up on me, developing seamlessly and without effort. Now that I see it, though, I’m smiling.
In a dire emotional state, I started creating bloodwork paintings again, and like last time, painted hearts. I created many tiny canvases, and at one point as I was painting one of them I realized I liked the heart cracked down the middle rather than complete, and left it that way. I painted most of the rest of the canvases with hearts that were somehow split open.
After I finished those pieces, I realized it was a telling choice to make, and I liked how the hearts weren’t completely severed. There was a small thread at the bottom of each one, holding it together. A couple nights ago, that healing continued, when I stitched myself back together.
There’s a fair bit of talk in therapy and in general right now about death, and consequently, birth. I’m in a new cycle of recognition regarding who I am as a mother, and how.
“I wonder if anyone comes to the journey of self-discovery through means other than pain? It’s easily been the major motivating factor in my life for change, for growth and for self-understanding. I’ve often wondered if it could be different, and yet I don’t think anything defines beauty quite so well as the shadows and contrast created by pain.” – S
I’ve discovered, with the help of my Dad, that I’d fused two memories that were about a year apart regarding when my mom finally left the picture for good. I thought she said I was dead to her after we’d had an argument. Turns out it was said out of spite over the courts decision to refuse her demands to keep dad from seeing me (a consistent struggle that I clearly remember between the two of them) and granting him custody.
I am starting to see a clearer picture as to how my mothers absense shaped my identity, and finally beginning to let go of the deep, tangling belief that her leaving me was my fault.
Not being allowed to feel, allowed to be a child, is what saved my life. As I delve into this, finally, I’m coming to understand just how clever, intelligent, insightful and resilient I was. What a brave and strong little girl I became for myself and for my dad. I decided it was better to be bad and in control and helpful, than debilitated and afraid and a burden. I’d decided that before she actually left, but once I was the lady of my house, it was sealed, and I’ve subconsciously identified with that ever since. I became a natural at spotting deception and intention, creative at manipulation, persuasive, and did what I needed to do to survive. And I truly am an amazing human being with some pretty badass skills and depth for what I have faced and overcome in my life.
It came at a price. This price. Years of re-enacting insurmountable incessant pain, being cracked open like an egg in my 30′s. Though I’ve teased away so much of the anger and defensive mechanism that began to corrode my life once I was out of crisis, that pain that wants to be heard is still here. It’s been here, for 20 years, while I’ve been crying alone at night and not been able to understand what’s wrong and why I am capable of feeling so bad when I am so much better and have so much to be thankful for. It’s been there when I’ve been paralyzed in bed contemplating how I could die with compassion and responsibility, fantasizing that the loved ones I pushed away would come save me. It’s there when I wonder why I am so intensely afraid of the love and caring I want, and it cries out to you in my voice when I sing.
I’ve found myself on the brink of tears and crying periodically for days, weeks, for various reasons. It’s true, I’m mourning a romantic relationship right now, and I’ve finally passed through the posturing anger into missing a lot of what we had together that we won’t have again, and sometimes, though I’ve been enabled more than inhibited, I’m just so sad he chose to leave me as my lover while I was doing this. But most times, that just isn’t it. I’ll be sitting on the bus, sad and crying, and after a while I still can’t quite pin down what it is I’m sad about. Every time I’ve been overtaken by my grief/depression/sadness, become unable to function or process it in my life, it’s been because I couldn’t figure out what was causing it.
I have a mantra now, in which I say something like “This is why. This is why I’ve been so sad.”. In that moment, that invisible ball of metaphysical energy is connected to something in the real world, a reminder, a link, a recognition, and my sadness makes SENSE. Where before I felt lost and hopeless, I would start thinking I was somehow fundamentally flawed, or crazy, or deserved to feel like this, and that maybe the only answer that could free me of it was to die. Now I have a tool against that. I have a context for that tiny aching terrified runaway that’s had to be the strong one for so, so long.
Now that this is getting some of the attention it’s been seeking, attention that I’ve often supplemented in the form of the ‘falling in love’ and ‘passion’ stages of my romantic relationships, I’m beginning to reconnect with my worth with a profoundness I can feel when I breathe, taste when I eat, and hear when I speak. I’m embodying my transformative nature and embracing the often profound, life altering effect my authenticity has on people – even in passing. I’m reconnecting with that authenticity and taking chances on being vulnerable, and asking for what I need. I know better what I need, both when I see it and when I ask for it. My boundaries are returning, and the apologies surrounding them fading away. And I am giving amazing, connected, intuitive massages to my clients, who are coming back and tipping me more.
Though appearing in the world as a velvet glove encased in iron, often in my life, my lovers and close friends have told me how amazed they are that I never let what I went through make me hard.
I will never let what I went through make me hard.
I’m just writing to thank you. For always being there. The more I learn
about myself, relationships, life, I realize that I am as capable as I am
despite some pretty heavy odds otherwise because you stuck by me while I was
growing, forming my sense of security, when no one else had.
What you did for me made a difference. You gave me a chance to live life. I
want you to know that I’m doing that, to the best of my (often miraculous)
abilities.
I just spent the last couple hours combing through some old entries to my former therapy journal, femanutzi, when I went to therapy the first round 6 years ago.
Most of the core stuff is the same. But man, am I not. Even in my worst, darkest, thickest places, I am not that person anymore. I’m so much softer now, so much more open to growth and resolution. I’m so much kinder, if you can believe it. Seeing how I was vs. how I am now is a real gift to myself, and a real fucking testament to my abilities as a human being. It worked last time – fucking look at me now! – and it will work again this time, and the next time I do it and the one after that.
As an added bonus, reading through helped me put together a few things that I won’t need to pay a therapist to remind me, now.
This will work – no, this IS working. This is my stuff. It’s ok that it’s my stuff, and that I’m still holding it.
I can feel myself relaxing, trusting how this works, letting go of having to focus on deconstruction and running my mind putting pieces together. I’ve been balls to the wall for days, and today, I was able to actually lay down and rest for a while, my mind, my body, everything, and snuggle into my cat and heating pad, because it felt good and nourishing. It felt amazing to be in my bed for a reason other than being paralyzed with dread at doing anything else. Which is a good thing, cause fuck I’m tired.
I’ve known you long enough to recognize that this is a cycle that you are struggling with and have been dealing with for some time. Successfully it would seem, since you are still here and still a remarkably productive and contributing member of society in spite of it all. I know that doesn’t make it any easier every time you have to fight that battle all over again though, like you’re doing now.
It’s ok. Your feelings are ok. Wanting to die is ok. You are whole, complete, human, and you are sane. This makes sense, it will pass, and there is always a reason for your feelings. Listen, as best you can. Trust that there is always a reason, even when you think you can’t find one. Remember that there is a truth and a knowing you have, and it’s still there, even when you can’t see it. Of course you feel depressed right now. Of course you want the pain to go away. Of course you’re scared.
Of course you are. There is NOTHING wrong with you. Nothing.
I’m not happy with the way I’ve been treating people lately – including myself, and especially Beau. Off the sauce, and back to emo self care basics (like the 10 things I’m thankful for every day). I’ve been doing pretty good with the physical basics like eating and moving around, though, so good for me for that. Sadly, it’s not enough.
*** 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.
