"That Girl" is an Insufferable Swot.

I love words.

No, that's not entirely accurate. To love something implies at least a tacit desire for reciprocity, for a mutuality of feeling between lover and loved thing. That phrase doesn't quite get at it, in this case.

I am in awe of words.

Getting closer, but still not right. To be awestruck seems to me to have more in kind with idolatry, an admiration from a distance, always acknowledging the gap between worshiper and worshiped. Again, not exactly my position.

I hoard words.

Now we're getting closer. Much as I do adore words and am consistently amazed by their power, I am not content with other a loving give-and-take or a reverent admiration. My connection to words is far more covetous, more selfish, more self-indulgent. I want to fill my pockets with them, to take them in and make them mine, to re-present them as my own inventions.

I've been obsessed with words for a very long time. I was an early reader, encouraged by my parents to feed my imagination with books and language. Even as a small child, I showed signs of the covetousness I speak of now. My parents were convinced that I was reading by age three, because I could recite Bread and Jam for Frances word for word. I had not learned to read. I had taken the text in and absorbed it, through frequent aloud readings and the repetition from my record-player. I had memorized the words before I could read them, before probably I even completely understood what they meant. Textual theft. A trademark of mine.

Incidentally, I now make a living drawing on that behavior in my professional life. I pride myself on being a 'quick study,' memorizing lines easily, without really needing to apply myself to the task. Truth is, I don't know how I do it. I love re-reading things... to me, a familiar book is just as comfortable as an embrace from an old friend. I want to carry that feeling with me, so I tend to pull passages of writing into my memory unconsciously. I'm a magpie for language.

I like the tactility of language. Words stab. Words caress. They soothe, they admire, they belittle, they humble etc. etc. etc. Small line and hatches cooperate with one another to create a world of meaning. I think of words as physical objects often, imagining their invisible lines tattooed on living surfaces; to carry this image, if you turned my skin inside out, I suspect the inside of it would be coated in ink scrawls. I like carrying language with me. I wear a poesy ring on my right hand, and have for years. The text is biblical, and is often used on Jewish wedding bands... I like it for entirely different reasons. The engraving contains the word 'Beloved,' a word I find utterly satisfying in its simplicity. I like that all three syllables are evenly voiced, and to me, it manages to sound like a contradiction, containing both suppleness and strength. Just the word itself suggests those things to me, and for that reason, I love it. Hence the ring, aside from its religious or spiritual overtones.

I am drawn to old writing, because to me, the tactility of language feels more acknowledged. I feel it when I read for Shakespeare for example. The language is so delicately crafted, both for literary meaning and a sheer pleasure of the word. Individual words each here serve their literal function, but are also arranged so carefully, with an ear for painting larger pictures through the rhythm of phrases, then sentences, then sonnets then etc. Iambic pentameter, echoing the rhythm of the human heartbeat, is to me a kind of textual acrobatics, crafted in language letter by letter. Its complicated construction becomes more exquisite as the power of the words distracts a reader from its scientific assembly, reason giving way to the pleasure of the words. I am drawn to Shakespeare as well because, when existing words didn't suffice, the poet invented new words to convey just the right 'something.' That is incredibly satisfying and almost heart-achingly beautiful to me, a fellow language-lover.

I sometimes wish that I were synasthetic, that is a person for whom written words carry color, taste etc. Intellectually, I feel like I grasp the concept. Words to me often carry sensibility outside of their individual meanings... I love the roundness and open space of the word "spoon" for example (and, in a nerdy reference, feel kinship with The Tick for choosing it as his rallying cry). It's an entirely satisfying word, outside of its use to describe a metal utensil. It's a pleasurable word to say and hear. Other words work on the opposite side of the spectrum for me... words like "moist" and "squat" never fail to sound horrid and unpleasant, no matter their context (much to the amusement of my father, who discovered this quirk of mine at dinner a few weeks ago). Sounds and cadences make an impression on me, with and without the prescribed textual meanings. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to see words "in color," as it were, though I suspect this would be so overwhelmingly distracting for me to carry on with any semblance of a life.

If you had any doubts before reading this of my insufferably nerdiness, I should think they'd be suitably assuaged now. Words have been my longest friends, and will continue to be my constant companions. Except for words like "slacks," which I can happily do without.

"That Girl" Wishes She Had Gone to These Chapels!

If anyone out is there is confused what true love looks like, I think I have the cure. Check out some beautiful images of the the first same-sex marriages in New York State this past weekend.

It bears mentioning that, besides being happy-weddingy-photos (which I already love), these images document almost unfathomably long walks down the aisle. The first Manhattan couple, Phyllis Siegel, 77, and Connie Kopolev, 85, have been together for 23 years. For 23 years, these two women stood by each other's other's sides, through the the good time and the bad, in sickness and in health. They've withstood having their relationship given second-rate status, and through everything, continue to love each other. To me, that's what marriage is all about... For Siegel and her wife Kopolev, their Sunday wedding doesn't define their relationship... they've been a committed couple for years. This wedding does something more important, something that straight people have been afforded for decades. This wedding, and the accompanying legal certificate, make their love official, make a public declaration of their commitment for each other. After a 23 year walk down the aisle, it is much, much deserved.

Perhaps I'm feeling extra-sentimental about all of this because I'm getting ready to plan my own wedding. For the Donald and I, it is extremely important that our friends (many of whom are gay) and our family both feel welcome and really embraced by how we choose to celebrate our union. For me, I do feel some guilt about all of this: about how easy it is for me to get married in the first place, since the person I love is my biological opposite. I'm a member of Offbeat Bride, and spend a lot of time on the "Tribe Forum," reading ideas and advice. There are a number of bride-bride couples planning lovely ceremonies that really express the nature of their love for one another, and capture the hopes and dreams these women have for their now-united future. It's always mitigated for me however by knowing that many of these loving couples live in parts of the U.S. where their "wedding" cannot be an official one. I am blown away by their determination and dedication to each other, and saddened that only some love is considered "good love" in my country.

I wonder sometimes how many straight couples would make it to the altar if their relationships were put to the kind of tests that same-sex couples face on a daily basis. If I knew that my partner would be the other half of my heart, but not on my tax return, my health insurance, or maybe not in the eyes of some people I know, how would that effect our relationship? Would the stress of all of that, day after day, take its toll? Would a number of straight couples fall apart if they had to prove everyday that they were in fact legitimate? I sometimes wonder if things like gay marriage would be less of an issue in the U.S. if it weren't for this automatic privileging and desperate need to cling to that which is "normal."

So much of American politics reminds me of what it must be like for a goth girl growing up with "normal," average, middle-of-the-road kind of parents. To her well-meaning parents, she seems to be acting out, rebelling, proving a point, going through a phase she'll certainly have to grow out of. It seems to me however that she's instead just trying to live her life, in the way that feels most logical and right for her. Which is really what we all do from day to day... It would be really good however for us "normal" people to keep our noses out of everybody else's business, and let everyone get on with living their lives, just like we try to do.

For Connie and Phyllis, and all the newlyweds, many many MORE years of joy!

"That Girl" is, well...

There are a lot of things I should be doing, words that I should be writing that are not these particular words. But I can't. I just can't right now, because I'm too sad. Sad about some little personal things, but mostly, sad on a much more all-encompassing level. Call me childish if you like, but I'm sad for the world at large... I "have a little pain in my heart," to echo someone's sentiments from Oslo last night.

I started writing today because of my heartsickness over the tragedy in Norway. But there's more behind that ache. Children condemned and bullied because as boys, they paint their toenails pink, or as girls, they're just not pretty or girly enough. A website for "angry white dudes" both calling out Jane Fonda for her past protesting, and insinuating (via user comments) that she deserves to be raped as punishment. The harsh reality that my home government does not care about the health of its citizens, continually failing to provide affordable and available health coverage for all its people. A foreign policy that hinges on hunting-down evildoers, not creating strategies for growth and healing. On a tiny level, the knowledge that, by being an artist, I've condemned myself to a life of financial strife, and governmental insignificancy, bacause I just don't work 'hard' enough. And, should I ever be recognized finanically as an artist, I'd best sure to toe the conservative line, or else.

I was sickningly enthralled by the "angry white dude" website I stumbled on today... in part of it, the Head AWD condemns a group of compatriots for wanting to start "a Black tea party." He asks them why must they distinguish themselves in terms of race. He also criticizes Sarah Palin for saying that it's time for a female president by asking "why not a midget president etc." I have an answer for him, though I'm sure that he doesn't what to hear what a Rational White Dudette has to say. My answer is that perhaps people want to distinguish themselves from Angry White Dudes because we do not want to be construed as being like you. We don't want to be coloured with the same brush as a person who proposes rape as a fitting punishment for an outspoken woman. Perhaps we, in addition to taking pride in our non-angry, white, dude status, want to make it very clear to the rest of the world that WE are not YOU.

I want peace to be valued. I want soldiers worldwide to be able to stop being soldiers, and get to fall in love with their civilian lives all over again, trading the front lines for family, home, harmony. I want politicians to stop being the mouthpieces for big business, for Monsanto etc. to stop making its' interests my interests. I want my government to invest in me, to see me as more than a taxpayer number, but as a vital active resource, taking interest in my health and well-being. I want to give life to a child who will grow up not living in fear of school shootings, terrorist threats, not to mention bullying at the hands of 'normal' children and their cruel, small-minded parents.

We live in a world where, angry or not, one must shout to be heard. And what better way to make one's shouts heard than by having the money and clout to buy a very large and expensive microphone. I know that almost no one will read this. And those of you that will likely already agree with me. But I'm going to try shouting anyway, because I don't know what else to do.

I want to live my life. Fully.

"That Girl" is Heavy!

I can't lie... the past couple weeks have been rougher than Willie Nelson's scraggly beard-face. The pressure of a dissertation, a dwindling bank account, and a fiance back home (not any fault of his, I must clarify), as well as a whole lot of uncertainty for what the post-London future holds is starting to get to me. I'm the kind of person that likes to say I work well under pressure, and to some degree it's true. I like deadlines, for example. I set them for myself for most long-term tasks, and, even though they're self-imposed, they become law, and I follow them. I also work well in intense situations. When I was in high school (and on the forensics team), I was entered into the Extemporaneous Speech competition at National qualifiers as a sophomore,as what is lovingly referred to as a "sacrificial lamb." I'd never done the event before, but our team wanted a few more people to fill out the event. I wound up in the finals, and was one point away from advancing to Nationals. So, sometimes, pressure can be great.

This though, I don't think, is that kind of pressure. This is the kind made up not of intense nerves and adrenaline, but worry. Lots and lots of worry. Can I make it through the next two months? Will I finish my dissertation? Can I afford to go to the festivals and conferences I'm invited to in September? Am I good enough to be a "real" artist? What do I do when I go home? Will I always have to feel this way because of the life I've chosen? I know this is all a bit whiny, but, nonetheless, it's keeping me up at night, and keeping in my bed for far too long in the morning. This isn't the good stress, but the sneaky kind that has a way of getting under my skin. As I type this, I'm on my flatmate's computer, as my laptop is inconveniently on the fritz... it seems I'm not the only thing in this room that is feeling overworked!

I'm starting to wonder if the build-up of these feelings doesn't have something to do with going home soon. Don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to it. I miss New York City, my cat, my family, my Donald, and, most importantly, a breakfast that doesn't involve beans of any variety. But, I'll be very sad when this year is over. For the first time, I've been able to spend the majority of my time doing the thing that I am passionate about. I make art, full-time. It's really been a tremendous opportunity. I've taken so many risks in myself and in my art practice. I've become much more informed and, simultaneously, curious about the options I have in the 'art world.' I've gotten to travel to incredible places, gaining some killer experiences that have also informed my practice. I'm studying in a community that values the experimental, the risk-taking, the forward-thinking. And I guess I'm not ready for that to be over.

In some ways, I have a sense that, when I go home, that will be very very different. I'll be back to the 'make ends meet hussle.' I'll still be producing and performing my own work, but on a far more protracted schedule, to accommodate savings and day job schedules. I certainly won't be travelling... unless it's my daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan, that it. I'll go back to being yet another underpaid actor in New York City. And that's getting me down a bit. I don't want fame and fortune. I don't need a Broadway gig. I just want life to be more like this year has been. I suppose that, in and of itself, is a good goal to set, no matter how daunting it may feel.

"That Girl" Said This!

While I'll be writing a longer post in the next day or two about my time in Manchester, I did want to put this up. I wrote this in response to a panel discussion at the Flare Festival on "The Future of Theatre." The discussion was good, albeit a bit depressing... and then it came time for Q&A. A man from the Arts Council pointed out that, in the UK, we're already very privileged to have great theatre and art, and that we ought to take some time to reflect on that. While he does have a point, I felt very patronized by it, especially as he was speaking to a room for students in contemporary theatre who are about to enter the professional world where funding etc. is difficult to come by. So I wrote this. The original post, as well as the Flare Festival blog, can be found here.




Indebted Artists? A Futuristic Appeal



Breaking News

Attempt made on life of panel discussion.

Reminder issued from auditorium rear to appreciate art we are privileged to have.

Why ponder theatrical futurity when there is so much theatre around for which to be thankful?

Well.

I am not grateful.

I will not worship a cash-greased art machine that only propagates more of itself.

I will not content myself to witness big art at big venues for big prices.

I will not be an insignificant atom of an indestructible organism.


I will:

Make theatre with zero (nada, nothing, nil) budget. It is all I have, and I will put it to best possible use.

Support my fellow artists. I will write about their work and borrow their critical brilliance in theory and practice. I will reference Richard Schechner and my friend Ruth. I will foment a culture of discourse discreet from marketability.

Make love on the fringes. Dozens, not thousands, of people may see my work. But I will appreciate each one, digest their feedback, listen. I will take pride in my localized work and reject bums-in-seats agenda.

Continue to dream big. I will create effects without pyrotechnics and borrowed beach balls as props. I will turn financial poverty into artistic gain by investing in ingenuity.

Shout and not whine. I will not stop if funders cannot affix a price-tag to my forehead. I will make work and bartend and produce work and shuffle bills. My practice will not be dictated for me.

What will you do?

"That Girl" Takes a Continental Detour!

As you may know, I spent the past week in Austria with some others from my Master's programme, doing a performance in Salzburg. I thought I'd share some details about it, as it was such a grand experience. There's some information about the showing here if you're curious.

Toihaus, the theatre, graciously gave us free reign of their facilities, and with the their help, we put together an evening of works in progress. I showed a revised version of my piece "Martin's (words lost)," and all together the evening went off without a hitch. My piece is still in development, and really changing a lot, but I think it was good to show it again, and get some feedback. I feel like I'm getting close to something with it, and am so grateful to have had the chance to perform 'on the continent.' I have to say too that being back in a blackbox theatre was such a terrific feeling.... we spent most of Sunday doing technical rehearsals, and I just didn't want to leave the theatre. Funny isn't it, how we develop attachments, and find our niche in places like that. All in all, a veeeeeery pleasant week.

With any luck, I have a fair bit more travelling coming. I've had a paper accepted to a conference for presentation at the University of Kingston in September, and a collaborative project with my colleague Karin has been accepted to a conference in Helsinki of all places. I'm also doing the London Festival Fringe in a few weeks, and am hoping to travel to Istanbul within the month to make another piece. I'm trying to figure my budget out at the moment, as money predictably is very tight at this point in the academic year. But, with any luck, I'll manage it all... I figure it can't all help but hurt when it comes to job hunting in the good ol' US. And, at the very least, it'll be a hell of a time, job market be damned.

"That Girl" Pauses for a Commercial Break!

Are you a That Girl International fangirl/boy/other? She'll be guest blogging this week for the The Flare International Festival of Theatre in Manchester, UK... check out the blog here. You can also follow me on twitter (why, I don't know) at @MoxyMolly, or follow the Flare Festival at @FlareFestival.

Cheers!