No matter how relaxed I think I am, I'm not. At work there's always a level of buzz, static, noise, interference. Being watched.
I can't touch Raw Umber or my other blogs there. Even posts in this main one come out noisy, rough.
It's pure evidence of creator = product. Jangly me, jangly writing. Deep me, deep writing.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
plowing the fields of the lord
Even in Elysian fields, my to-do list looks pretty dang practical. Write status reports. Hold meetings. Update specs. Review recording session.
Today is a doing day.
Today is a doing day.
Monday, July 25, 2005
at play in the fields of the lord
That Living Your Vision course I took was big on intentions. If I start with what I intend to get out of an experience, my unconscious can help me more. An intention is a mix of what it will look like, and what it will feel like.
This is my third time at Microsoft, and I notice I have much baggage, in habits and in expectations. I want to shed those and start fresh.
So here's my intention for work:
Play is all-inclusive. It means spiritual play.
This is my third time at Microsoft, and I notice I have much baggage, in habits and in expectations. I want to shed those and start fresh.
So here's my intention for work:
I am at play in the fields of the lord.Light. Easy. Play. A conscious game, aligned with my purpose. Plus, it's easy for me to measure. "Does this day feel like I'm at play in the fields of the lord? Does this project? What can I do to move it there?"
Play is all-inclusive. It means spiritual play.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
red silk shirt and black tie
Today a guy at work gave a demo for the rest of our group. It's informal, we meet every week.
The guy dressed up. Unabashedly. He came dressed to present. Brilliant red silk shirt, black tie, black slacks.
This is highly unusual. None of us in Games dress up, except maybe the marketers or biz dev folks. But for sure no one in that room, and for ultra-sure, not a programmer.
It was striking. Delightful. Resonant. Respectful. I loved it.
It's like when I clean the kitchen, light incense and candles, and make a munchie platter for me and Jeff. A radiance arising unbidden, unforeseen into what was otherwise an ordinary day.
The guy dressed up. Unabashedly. He came dressed to present. Brilliant red silk shirt, black tie, black slacks.
This is highly unusual. None of us in Games dress up, except maybe the marketers or biz dev folks. But for sure no one in that room, and for ultra-sure, not a programmer.
It was striking. Delightful. Resonant. Respectful. I loved it.
It's like when I clean the kitchen, light incense and candles, and make a munchie platter for me and Jeff. A radiance arising unbidden, unforeseen into what was otherwise an ordinary day.
casual games conference
Definitely a baby conference. One of those "most people in the room know most people in the room" shindigs.
Main takeaways:
Main takeaways:
1. Casual games is where PC games were in 1995 -- small file sizes (for downloads), bandwidth-constrained, full of innovation & promise, able to be done by small studios.
2. Casual games are for everybody.
3. We are makers of culture, makers of entertainment.
4. We live in a world of World of Warcraft, anime, & other hot art.
5. Gambling is entering the world of casual games -- modulo federal law, state law, evolving caseload law, IRS regulations, and the portal's guidelines.
6. There are a kajillion cellphone platforms & screen-sizes. To build a cellphone game requires a kajillion programmers.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Scott Kim
I'm going to the Casual Games Conference today & tomorrow. It's here in Bellevue, and my group -- Microsoft Casual Games -- is the main host of it.
What's wild is, one of the speakers is a guy I have known since I was 21, Scott Kim. Scott is a puzzlemaster. I first knew him in Palo Alto, when he would come to parties at our group house, or we would go to his, and he would make puzzles during the parties. He could write your name so it read the same right-side-up and upside-down. He and I were both working at Xerox PARC. I saw he was doing puzzles for Games magazine for a while, then lost track of him.
It's cool to see he has surfaced and our paths are, weirdly, still entwining. It feels a lot like group houses, to tell you the truth.
I like that Scott took this thing he liked to do, which was fiddle around with puzzles and graphics, and basically get paid to do it forever. Puzzle on, Scott.
What's wild is, one of the speakers is a guy I have known since I was 21, Scott Kim. Scott is a puzzlemaster. I first knew him in Palo Alto, when he would come to parties at our group house, or we would go to his, and he would make puzzles during the parties. He could write your name so it read the same right-side-up and upside-down. He and I were both working at Xerox PARC. I saw he was doing puzzles for Games magazine for a while, then lost track of him.
It's cool to see he has surfaced and our paths are, weirdly, still entwining. It feels a lot like group houses, to tell you the truth.
I like that Scott took this thing he liked to do, which was fiddle around with puzzles and graphics, and basically get paid to do it forever. Puzzle on, Scott.
Monday, July 18, 2005
a crying book, the incompletion of Arthur
My niece was recommending a book to me last night. "It's a crying book," she said. Instantly, my own crying books sprang to mind.
Arthur's incompletion.
Maybe it's because I never get that Arthur knew god. Or that Arthur knew himself. I've never seen him take the whole journey from, "I was trained to be this kind of king," to "Here's all the troubles that arose," to "This was my chosen destruction," to "Here's how I was reborn," to "This is who I became," to "This is what I made." It's just the first two steps. He never became whole.
The tragedy of King Arthur to me is all that promise, unfulfilled. His round table was only the promise. Benedict, who founded the Benedictine order of monks; Genghis Khan and his mountain horsemen; Eugenio Barba and the Odin Teatret actors; the Dalai Lama and his monks; they have gone the whole journey. Are, in some cases, still going. Death holds no terror for them. Fear, yes; they're mortal. But spiritually, they're on solid ground.
To Kill A MockingbirdThe Once And Future King makes me ache. But only the Arthur movie makes me cry -- that one where his body is sent out to sea on a flaming bier. No matter how the story is told, there is an ache. For Guinevere, the kingship, the quarreling of the knights, the Grail, the incompletion.
A Separate Peace
Sometimes A Great Notion
Flowers For Algernon
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest
Arthur's incompletion.
Maybe it's because I never get that Arthur knew god. Or that Arthur knew himself. I've never seen him take the whole journey from, "I was trained to be this kind of king," to "Here's all the troubles that arose," to "This was my chosen destruction," to "Here's how I was reborn," to "This is who I became," to "This is what I made." It's just the first two steps. He never became whole.
The tragedy of King Arthur to me is all that promise, unfulfilled. His round table was only the promise. Benedict, who founded the Benedictine order of monks; Genghis Khan and his mountain horsemen; Eugenio Barba and the Odin Teatret actors; the Dalai Lama and his monks; they have gone the whole journey. Are, in some cases, still going. Death holds no terror for them. Fear, yes; they're mortal. But spiritually, they're on solid ground.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Living Your Vision, say "I"
I just did a 3-day course called Living Your Vision. It's essentially two steps:
That's one reason Raw Umber goes deeper. I'm just looking at god and writing for me.
1. Who am I? In my essence, without changing a thing, stated as if it were fully flowered in the world, in present tense, starting with "I am..." This is my Vision.One thing I learned was how often I say "you" when I mean, "I."
2. What actions support me in being and manifesting my essence more fully? That is my Purpose.
That's one reason Raw Umber goes deeper. I'm just looking at god and writing for me.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Commitment is a weapon
Well, as it turns out, I won't be directing Henry V next spring. The muse of fire has flared, scorched, and vanished. I have other projects I am more committed to.
Never thought I'd say THAT sentence.
Commitment is a weapon. When you commit to something, it cuts a star-hammer swath, creating time, money, attention, and space for that thing to manifest. The commitment protects the space.
"I can't do that show, I'm doing this one." There's really no such thing as two shows at once. Once in a while, rehearsals for one will begin while the other is still in performance. Or, once they're built, in repertory you might have one or two running, while you're refreshing another. But when you're creating, you commit to a show and it owns you.
Well, I should say -- unless that's how you're wired. Peter Hall loves to direct two or more shows at once, flying between cities -- and continents -- to work on them. He finds the cross-semination enlivening.
Never thought I'd say THAT sentence.
Commitment is a weapon. When you commit to something, it cuts a star-hammer swath, creating time, money, attention, and space for that thing to manifest. The commitment protects the space.
"I can't do that show, I'm doing this one." There's really no such thing as two shows at once. Once in a while, rehearsals for one will begin while the other is still in performance. Or, once they're built, in repertory you might have one or two running, while you're refreshing another. But when you're creating, you commit to a show and it owns you.
Well, I should say -- unless that's how you're wired. Peter Hall loves to direct two or more shows at once, flying between cities -- and continents -- to work on them. He finds the cross-semination enlivening.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
the endurance phase
I am starting to hit the endurance phase of software. Where you're finally in shape enough to handle the mountain of task, and the mountain gets bigger.
I can't get the iron out of my neck.
At dinner tonight I started -- and finished, appropriately -- a book called The UltraMarathon Man. It's by a guy who runs 100+-mile races. Once he ran a 122-mile race, which all the other entrants ran in 12-person relay teams. He ran it alone. "Team Dean" they called him.
"It's not that I'm better at anything," he said. "I can just keep going longer." And, "I like the solitude."
I sometimes get flashes that the future might hold something bigger than even the biggest thing I have done so far. This makes me incredibly happy.
That guy's thing is running. Mine is growing.
I can't get the iron out of my neck.
At dinner tonight I started -- and finished, appropriately -- a book called The UltraMarathon Man. It's by a guy who runs 100+-mile races. Once he ran a 122-mile race, which all the other entrants ran in 12-person relay teams. He ran it alone. "Team Dean" they called him.
"It's not that I'm better at anything," he said. "I can just keep going longer." And, "I like the solitude."
I sometimes get flashes that the future might hold something bigger than even the biggest thing I have done so far. This makes me incredibly happy.
That guy's thing is running. Mine is growing.
World of Warcraft
I always have this feeling when I look at games & comic-books, that they are electric with promise. Yet somehow they never deliver, for me.
But they can.
I played World of Warcraft yesterday. I relaxed, enjoying the love that puts better and better massively-multiplayer-online role-playing games into the world. Make no mistake, these are creations of love. World of Warcraft took five years to make, and that's not counting all the years it took to make Warcraft or Diablo first.
I felt that same tremor. A longing for a stage and for actors. A recognition of the growing power of the role-playing-game genre, and of its continuing inadequacy.
I always feel as if I am looking at computer games from 50 years in the future. They seem as evocative and archaic as lead soldiers. World of Warcraft on a souped-up PC; SpaceWars on two PDP-6's -- same thing.
There is a human neurolinguistic-processing bandwidth that computer games miss. There is a cognitive-chunking/mapping bandwidth that theatres miss.
I thought last year about writing a play that was just an algorithm for the director. Not a script, but a series of tasks, out of which falls a unique script & production.
But they can.
I played World of Warcraft yesterday. I relaxed, enjoying the love that puts better and better massively-multiplayer-online role-playing games into the world. Make no mistake, these are creations of love. World of Warcraft took five years to make, and that's not counting all the years it took to make Warcraft or Diablo first.
I felt that same tremor. A longing for a stage and for actors. A recognition of the growing power of the role-playing-game genre, and of its continuing inadequacy.
I always feel as if I am looking at computer games from 50 years in the future. They seem as evocative and archaic as lead soldiers. World of Warcraft on a souped-up PC; SpaceWars on two PDP-6's -- same thing.
There is a human neurolinguistic-processing bandwidth that computer games miss. There is a cognitive-chunking/mapping bandwidth that theatres miss.
I thought last year about writing a play that was just an algorithm for the director. Not a script, but a series of tasks, out of which falls a unique script & production.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Art the color of its surroundings
I read in a quilting book that artists tend to create in the colors of the Nature around them.
Australian artists paint in reds, browns, creams, purples. Pacific Northwest artists paint in greens, browns, blues. Scandinavian artists paint in creams, whites, blues, tans. Mexican artists paint in peaches, turquoises, yellows.
Australian artists paint in reds, browns, creams, purples. Pacific Northwest artists paint in greens, browns, blues. Scandinavian artists paint in creams, whites, blues, tans. Mexican artists paint in peaches, turquoises, yellows.
Deck, Wind in the Willows, trains
My side deck is a well-travelled highway of cliffs. Robins study the grass for bugs. Squirrels stop to scratch their bellies. A feral grey cat slinks up and sits, intent.
Once in a while a big raccoon trundles across, as belligerent as a badger.
Kenneth Grahame, who wrote the children's classic, The Wind in the Willows, was begged by his publisher to write a sequel. "Didn't you read my book?" he asked. "I like being outdoors. On the moors, in the water. Writing keeps me away from all that."
When I'd skip high school, I'd walk down to the trestle across our lake, climb out on the massive beams, and drowse in the sun. I'd gaze at lily pads, perch, maybe a muskrat. Lily-pad flowers -- known in other parts of the world as lotuses -- follow the sun. They close at night, and open when the sun returns. We could tell when to start rowing home by when the lily-pads began to shut.
On a good day a train would thunder overhead, just feet away, shaking the whole structure. Freight trains, with over 80 cars. Dugga-DUGGA-dugga-dugga, dugga-DUGGA-dugga-dugga.
To this day when I hear a train or see its tracks, I feel it is my dad saying hello to me.
Once in a while a big raccoon trundles across, as belligerent as a badger.
Kenneth Grahame, who wrote the children's classic, The Wind in the Willows, was begged by his publisher to write a sequel. "Didn't you read my book?" he asked. "I like being outdoors. On the moors, in the water. Writing keeps me away from all that."
When I'd skip high school, I'd walk down to the trestle across our lake, climb out on the massive beams, and drowse in the sun. I'd gaze at lily pads, perch, maybe a muskrat. Lily-pad flowers -- known in other parts of the world as lotuses -- follow the sun. They close at night, and open when the sun returns. We could tell when to start rowing home by when the lily-pads began to shut.
On a good day a train would thunder overhead, just feet away, shaking the whole structure. Freight trains, with over 80 cars. Dugga-DUGGA-dugga-dugga, dugga-DUGGA-dugga-dugga.
To this day when I hear a train or see its tracks, I feel it is my dad saying hello to me.
Sleep, the wonder drug
I had three nights of less-than-3-hours-of-sleep last week, and hurtled into the weekend dragging. Busy Saturday, up late Saturday night, up early Sunday. So this afternoon:
A green afternoon of peace.
s......l......e......e......pI was asleep upstairs. Jeff was asleep downstairs.
A green afternoon of peace.
Dalai Lama's birthday (4 days ago)
On July 6, Tenzig Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, turned 70. It is only the second time in several reincarnations he has reached this age.
Postsecret
I checked out a site called Postsecret, from Kipley's blog. Don't read it from work. It is where people mail in postcards with their secrets. The postsecret folks pick a few, scan, and post.
This one hit me.
This one hit me.
Cherry Orchard
I saw Exchange Theatre's Cherry Orchard tonight. Two Chekhovs in two weeks. One on a big stage in heightened language for a big audience; the other on an intimate stage for a small audience. Lovely, different, beautiful together.
What struck me tonight was how incredibly consistent each character's view of themselves was -- and how they totally missed the main thing everyone else could see about them.
I suddenly wondered -- what am I missing? What is the thing everyone around ME can see, that I don't see about myself?
I don't like the two answers that come to mind. But it makes me realize where it will make the biggest impact to change my habits.
What struck me tonight was how incredibly consistent each character's view of themselves was -- and how they totally missed the main thing everyone else could see about them.
I suddenly wondered -- what am I missing? What is the thing everyone around ME can see, that I don't see about myself?
I don't like the two answers that come to mind. But it makes me realize where it will make the biggest impact to change my habits.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
First get all the notes right
I have a friend at work who, I realized yesterday, speaks a computer science as pure and courtly as Castillian Spanish.
"Wait," I said abruptly, after he had spoken for an hour uninterrupted. "I just hit the end of my queue. I have to walk to digest." "Good," he said. When I returned, the stream picked up and continued. It was harder for me now; denser constructs, just as fast.
I have known this language since I was 19. How you think about the thinking is part of the training.
When I listen, I am simultaneously aware of the phenomenally rigorous structure within the argument, and the vaccuum outside it. While part of me tracks the structure, most of me seeks the edges and beyond -- looking for what's not there, or forgotten, or missing from the starting assumptions. When they start citing the seed principles, I shiver, feel flashes of heat. I can sense the greater correctness of those, the greater potential energy.
I am calmed and cleansed by orderly thought. It's as immersive as listening to Bach, or diving into cold water on a hot day. I stand beside a waterfall in the spray -- a dazzling amount of power, which is not mine, in whose proximity I delight, thunders past.
Washing dishes today, I realized that we DO have classical education in our country. It's technical. The computer scientists who taught me were as implacable as the pianists.
Piano and software are both based on rigor: First get all the notes right. Then learn to play.
"Wait," I said abruptly, after he had spoken for an hour uninterrupted. "I just hit the end of my queue. I have to walk to digest." "Good," he said. When I returned, the stream picked up and continued. It was harder for me now; denser constructs, just as fast.
I have known this language since I was 19. How you think about the thinking is part of the training.
When I listen, I am simultaneously aware of the phenomenally rigorous structure within the argument, and the vaccuum outside it. While part of me tracks the structure, most of me seeks the edges and beyond -- looking for what's not there, or forgotten, or missing from the starting assumptions. When they start citing the seed principles, I shiver, feel flashes of heat. I can sense the greater correctness of those, the greater potential energy.
I am calmed and cleansed by orderly thought. It's as immersive as listening to Bach, or diving into cold water on a hot day. I stand beside a waterfall in the spray -- a dazzling amount of power, which is not mine, in whose proximity I delight, thunders past.
As with systems of mathematics, however, I'm always aware there are alternative systems of thought.Last night, instead of game designers murmuring in my dreams, I heard Boon's soft eliding voice: Parent nodes and child nodes... not a well-formed language... can be an element or an attribute... an instance of the class... inherent in the object... verified... distributed... identifiable... procedural...
The ordered and the organic are two faces of god.
Washing dishes today, I realized that we DO have classical education in our country. It's technical. The computer scientists who taught me were as implacable as the pianists.
Piano and software are both based on rigor: First get all the notes right. Then learn to play.
Friday, July 08, 2005
google earth
This rocks... but only if you have a fairly new PC, a broadband/LAN connection, and 200MB of space. Go here, and install Google Earth.
If you don't have that stuff, go to a Kinko's or a tech friend's and try it there.
It's a fly-around-the-globe program that looks at earth from outer space. You type in an address or a town and it slowly rotates the earth under you, then zooms you down from outer space until you are looking at that place.
Seriously cool.
Click to enlarge
This is my mom's place. Hers is the top cabin on the shoreline, abutting Point Defiance Park in Tacoma, Washington. The windy strip is the trail up the cliff, to the clearing with the garages.
Type "Holstebro, Denmark" to see the small town and outlying farms, one of which houses the Odin Teatret where I lived.
If you don't have that stuff, go to a Kinko's or a tech friend's and try it there.
It's a fly-around-the-globe program that looks at earth from outer space. You type in an address or a town and it slowly rotates the earth under you, then zooms you down from outer space until you are looking at that place.
Seriously cool.
Click to enlarge
This is my mom's place. Hers is the top cabin on the shoreline, abutting Point Defiance Park in Tacoma, Washington. The windy strip is the trail up the cliff, to the clearing with the garages.
Type "Holstebro, Denmark" to see the small town and outlying farms, one of which houses the Odin Teatret where I lived.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
peace in the game halls
It's 5:30. People have their doors open. You can hear the quiet strains of music, intermixed with the equally quiet bing, bing, whirdlee-whir, bing, bing, tacka-tacka, bong of various videogames.
On this quiet evening when the meetings are over, we relax into games. I love this grey zone where work is play and play is work.
We have an informal group that plays boardgames down in the cafeteria two nights a week. They have met for years. I came in at 2:00am one Friday and they were still here. The same quiet murmur, only with cards and markers instead of videogame pings.
In my sleep, game-designers murmur quietly and ceaselessly, a constant sys-admin function, keeping the world going. I find it completely comforting.
Ping. Ping. ratta-ta-ratta-ta-ratta. DING-DONG. ping. ping.
On this quiet evening when the meetings are over, we relax into games. I love this grey zone where work is play and play is work.
We have an informal group that plays boardgames down in the cafeteria two nights a week. They have met for years. I came in at 2:00am one Friday and they were still here. The same quiet murmur, only with cards and markers instead of videogame pings.
In my sleep, game-designers murmur quietly and ceaselessly, a constant sys-admin function, keeping the world going. I find it completely comforting.
Ping. Ping. ratta-ta-ratta-ta-ratta. DING-DONG. ping. ping.
the Great Making
I like to learn by:
- studying theatre with a masterThe core of that is:
- while teaching my own theatre students
- while creating theatre collaboratively, directing
- while living in another country or learning a new skill
- while having deep talks with people from other fields
- while surrounded by Nature
- while getting enough sleep
- while exercising daily in a fun competitive spiritual way
- while falling in love
- while eating good food
- while taking care of money
- while writing
- with a few surprises
- and some downtime
- and my favorite authors writing new books.
I like learning how to make
while teaching how to make
while making with other makers
and making alone
while being nourished & cross-pollinated by Nature
where I am surrounded by the Great Making
Gnaw off your foot
So here's the thing about organic growth. It's organic.
Low tides are followed by high ones. High tides are followed by low.
Yesterday was a gnaw-off-your-foot day. When every instinct says, "Be bad! Make it worse!" and the instincts are correct. You have to know how bad it is. How bad you are. Letting go of Looking Good is passage through the Gate.
There is no treat or reward.
I felt like a shark biting its own tail yesterday. Trying to pry its jaws off just made it bite harder. Until finally I snapped, "Bite! I'll bite back!" A fierce swift blood-struggle ensued until I could go, "Oh, THAT's what it's about." It's about following the dark to its source. Finding what's under that, and what's under THAT, until you find what's under everything.
It's about, the low tide's got to be low. The dark has got to be dark. This is where art helps. Or any truthteller -- Chekhov, Van Gogh, Beethoven, Rilke, Radmila, Lyon, Kipley, anyone who has become the Search.
Mary Zimmerman had a scene in Metamorphoses where a mortal has been cursed with unquenchable hunger. I'm hungry! he roars, thrashing in a pool of water. He eats all the food. He eats all his neighbor's food. His grandmother brings him more food. Finally, he eats his grandmother. In the last moment, he sits on a wood bench, a fork & knife materializing in his hand, a red-checked napkin and white china plate appearing just in time for his bare shin to land on the plate. I'm still hungry! he roars, stabbing with his fork and knife at his own leg. Blackout.
Today, everything's the same except I feel cheerful. Tide's rising.
It's all just tides. The highs are not better than the lows.
The contour of tides is the shape of truth. Like the tide-chart that hangs on my mother's wall. The highest tides and lowest ones come back to back.
"The ding-ding-ding three-cherries of directing," says Bart Sher, "Is when you never see it coming. Yet it's been evolving there in front of you the whole time."
Low tides are followed by high ones. High tides are followed by low.
Yesterday was a gnaw-off-your-foot day. When every instinct says, "Be bad! Make it worse!" and the instincts are correct. You have to know how bad it is. How bad you are. Letting go of Looking Good is passage through the Gate.
There is no treat or reward.
I felt like a shark biting its own tail yesterday. Trying to pry its jaws off just made it bite harder. Until finally I snapped, "Bite! I'll bite back!" A fierce swift blood-struggle ensued until I could go, "Oh, THAT's what it's about." It's about following the dark to its source. Finding what's under that, and what's under THAT, until you find what's under everything.
It's about, the low tide's got to be low. The dark has got to be dark. This is where art helps. Or any truthteller -- Chekhov, Van Gogh, Beethoven, Rilke, Radmila, Lyon, Kipley, anyone who has become the Search.
Mary Zimmerman had a scene in Metamorphoses where a mortal has been cursed with unquenchable hunger. I'm hungry! he roars, thrashing in a pool of water. He eats all the food. He eats all his neighbor's food. His grandmother brings him more food. Finally, he eats his grandmother. In the last moment, he sits on a wood bench, a fork & knife materializing in his hand, a red-checked napkin and white china plate appearing just in time for his bare shin to land on the plate. I'm still hungry! he roars, stabbing with his fork and knife at his own leg. Blackout.
Only the truth can heal. Only the truth can cure.I once watched Roberta Carerri of the Odin, doing her first improvisation as a character entering a room. It took her full concentration, used all her skill, required her to throw away all her skill, and in that moment of loss, abandon to not-knowing. It was a master, walking into clumsiness and shame, off the cliff. Become a beginner. There is no other road. It never gets easier.
-- Chekhov
Today, everything's the same except I feel cheerful. Tide's rising.
It's all just tides. The highs are not better than the lows.
The contour of tides is the shape of truth. Like the tide-chart that hangs on my mother's wall. The highest tides and lowest ones come back to back.
"The ding-ding-ding three-cherries of directing," says Bart Sher, "Is when you never see it coming. Yet it's been evolving there in front of you the whole time."
I came here a wanderer
I came here a wanderer
thinking of home,
remembering my far away Ch'ang-an.
And then, from deep in Yellow Crane Pavillion,
I heard a beautiful bamboo flute
play "Falling Plum Blossoms."
It was late spring in a city by the river.
-- Li Po
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
the unendurable tension before the thing cracks
I feel like a river with 12 tributaries, of which only 2 are being used. Bandwidth, force, and power to spare.
I need to use my whole brain, not just the linear/task part. I need a resonator for gibbering layered pheremonic truths. I could play a grand piano for five straight hours. Thank god I see Radmila tonight, who can go big and explode into exponentialness.
All my usual avenues are pallid, lacking.
I am tired of waiting.
My unconscious has done nothing all day but work on how to stage horses.
I did a piece, WarHorses II, from a painting. It had 5 actors, whips, guitars, wild singing, ritual challenges in Japanese and Castillian Spanish, and intimate sensual deaths.
I'm ready to do WarHorses III. The one with the death's head and the capering shriekers, the kookaburras and the meadow of fire. I see Genghis's horsemen as an extension of their mounts, not the other way round.
The true story of Seabiscuit's jockey was much darker.
They asked me when I was three what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A horse," I said.
In Krakow, on Independence Day, the Polish armies marshalled in the town square. Men with fancy uniforms and good guns. Men with plain uniforms and plain guns. Men with no guns at all. That's who was sent to attack Iraq -- men with no guns at all. That's who defended Baghdad, city of story and legend -- men with no guns at all.
I need to destroy something. Starting with my government. I'm like a wildfire with no oxygen, all heat and mounting pressure.
I am without Play or Purpose, twisting like Billie Holiday's bruised strange fruit.
The Tarot said yes to everything today. Should I let L lead. Should I do Henry V. Should I make the play about Genghis Khan. Knight of Pentacles. King of Cups. Six of Pentacles (Success).
I'm holding space for something I want to do. I'd rather just be doing it.
Underneath that -- this is all just a way to distract myself from my Alignment. Not doing my alignment is what's making me crazy.
I need to use my whole brain, not just the linear/task part. I need a resonator for gibbering layered pheremonic truths. I could play a grand piano for five straight hours. Thank god I see Radmila tonight, who can go big and explode into exponentialness.
All my usual avenues are pallid, lacking.
I am tired of waiting.
My unconscious has done nothing all day but work on how to stage horses.
I did a piece, WarHorses II, from a painting. It had 5 actors, whips, guitars, wild singing, ritual challenges in Japanese and Castillian Spanish, and intimate sensual deaths.
I'm ready to do WarHorses III. The one with the death's head and the capering shriekers, the kookaburras and the meadow of fire. I see Genghis's horsemen as an extension of their mounts, not the other way round.
The true story of Seabiscuit's jockey was much darker.
They asked me when I was three what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A horse," I said.
In Krakow, on Independence Day, the Polish armies marshalled in the town square. Men with fancy uniforms and good guns. Men with plain uniforms and plain guns. Men with no guns at all. That's who was sent to attack Iraq -- men with no guns at all. That's who defended Baghdad, city of story and legend -- men with no guns at all.
I need to destroy something. Starting with my government. I'm like a wildfire with no oxygen, all heat and mounting pressure.
I am without Play or Purpose, twisting like Billie Holiday's bruised strange fruit.
The Tarot said yes to everything today. Should I let L lead. Should I do Henry V. Should I make the play about Genghis Khan. Knight of Pentacles. King of Cups. Six of Pentacles (Success).
I'm holding space for something I want to do. I'd rather just be doing it.
Underneath that -- this is all just a way to distract myself from my Alignment. Not doing my alignment is what's making me crazy.
don't write anotherLike that song Jim sings...
fucking poem -- god only hears
sweat, feet, gasping breath
all your why's don't change
the tide. this road does not exist.
walk another.
this is the
unendurable tension before
the thing cracks open
twist, twist, twist, until
the fissuring explosion --
use your body now
Lay your head back on the ground
Let your hair fall
all around you
Offer up your best defense --
this is the end
this is the end
this is the end
of the innocence
devolution
Although -- more thoughts on the previous post -- all that thundering percussive glory devolves straight into Kantor's Wielopole, Wielopole war-wracked mannequins & killing-camera, Picasso's Guernica, and Grotowski's death-camp Akropolis.
back from the ocean, hooves, Henry, chops
The ocean was great. A sensual drifting time.
It was a like a tune-up for the body. Sleep. Hot-tub. Good food. Ocean. Solitude. More sleep. I could do this once a year, go to the ocean alone and sleep.
It took 3 hours at night to get there. 7 hours on a workday afternoon with rush-hour traffic, to return.
Worth it.
As I drove back, I worked on staging Henry V and the life of Genghis Khan. I was listening to Riverdance. The opening song hovers, then drums, then goes BAM as 20 dancers stomp. BAM, they stomp again.
I remember Stephanie Shine's production of Henry V for Seattle Shakespeare Co. When the Chorus gave the opening prologue, ten actors like grey-clay mannequins stood behind him.
From there, I drifted into how to stage the life of Genghis Khan. In particular, the horses. How to get the sweep and thunder of the only army ever in history to have no infantry; 5 horses for every man. The horses alone would be a company, with an arc and choreography of their own. The Secret History of Genghis Khan describes every horse he ever rode, in detail.
It wasn't only the percussion that sent me on this military bent. It was the Irish dance itself, born out of rebellious obedience to English rulers who decreed the Irish people could not lift their arms above their heads while dancing. "Fine," said the Irish. "Watch this." Arms at their sides, backs ramrod straight, their feet became daggers, drums, the voice of a military.
I once saw the national champion snare-drummer do a completely technical roll. One stick at a time. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Growing imperceptibly faster until DonkaDonkaDonka, all the way up to Drrrrrrrrrrrrr. No break. It was completely controlled, all the way up into wings-of-a-hummingbird full flying drum roll. And then even more remarkably, just as controlled coming down, slowing all the way back to the original. You never heard a break.
The ovation was instantaneous.
Then he did the same thing with the more difficult double-stroke roll. Right. Right. Left. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left. RightRightLeftLeft, all the way up, all the way down.
Genghis's horsemen believed the honor was in winning, not in how you fought. It didn't matter how you won, or whether you won attacking or fleeing. One of their most frequent tactics, The Fox Chase, was to engage, then suddenly frantically flee. The enemy, emboldened, would pursue. When the enemy was all strung out, suddenly the Khan's horsemen would whirl, engage, win.
Chops.
It was a like a tune-up for the body. Sleep. Hot-tub. Good food. Ocean. Solitude. More sleep. I could do this once a year, go to the ocean alone and sleep.
It took 3 hours at night to get there. 7 hours on a workday afternoon with rush-hour traffic, to return.
Worth it.
As I drove back, I worked on staging Henry V and the life of Genghis Khan. I was listening to Riverdance. The opening song hovers, then drums, then goes BAM as 20 dancers stomp. BAM, they stomp again.
I remember Stephanie Shine's production of Henry V for Seattle Shakespeare Co. When the Chorus gave the opening prologue, ten actors like grey-clay mannequins stood behind him.
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,Shakespeare, near the height of his powers, grabbing the play by the throat and heading skyward. He's not even 10 lines into the play yet; those are lines 5 through 8.
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire
Crouch for employment.
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,On "mighty monarchies," BAM, BAM, the ten actors took two sharp steps in unison, becoming a military. I shivered. It was one of those fantastic, something-from-nothing, done-right-in-front-of-you-and-it-STILL-made-you-thrill, theatrical moments.
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies
From there, I drifted into how to stage the life of Genghis Khan. In particular, the horses. How to get the sweep and thunder of the only army ever in history to have no infantry; 5 horses for every man. The horses alone would be a company, with an arc and choreography of their own. The Secret History of Genghis Khan describes every horse he ever rode, in detail.
It wasn't only the percussion that sent me on this military bent. It was the Irish dance itself, born out of rebellious obedience to English rulers who decreed the Irish people could not lift their arms above their heads while dancing. "Fine," said the Irish. "Watch this." Arms at their sides, backs ramrod straight, their feet became daggers, drums, the voice of a military.
Think when we talk of horses, that you see themYou know what it is? It's chops. Sheer virtuosity. Shakespeare writing, the Irish dancing, Genghis Khan's horsemen attacking -- it's all immanent in the horses flying, hooves pounding.
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass...
Admit me Chorus to this history;The Chorus's prologue sounds like a drum cadence.
Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.
I once saw the national champion snare-drummer do a completely technical roll. One stick at a time. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Donk. Growing imperceptibly faster until DonkaDonkaDonka, all the way up to Drrrrrrrrrrrrr. No break. It was completely controlled, all the way up into wings-of-a-hummingbird full flying drum roll. And then even more remarkably, just as controlled coming down, slowing all the way back to the original. You never heard a break.
The ovation was instantaneous.
Then he did the same thing with the more difficult double-stroke roll. Right. Right. Left. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left. RightRightLeftLeft, all the way up, all the way down.
Genghis's horsemen believed the honor was in winning, not in how you fought. It didn't matter how you won, or whether you won attacking or fleeing. One of their most frequent tactics, The Fox Chase, was to engage, then suddenly frantically flee. The enemy, emboldened, would pursue. When the enemy was all strung out, suddenly the Khan's horsemen would whirl, engage, win.
Chops.
Friday, July 01, 2005
vacation with Genghis
I rented a car for the ocean. I feel like I am on vacation in another country. Even my own roads and skies look different.
I am having that feeling of glorious self-care.
The wonderful thing in Bergamo is to do nothing in Bergamo. A coffee when you feel like it. Sleeping until you are slept out.
It is with tremendous indulgence that I choose to be here blogging at Kinko's... before sleeping well in my own bed... before rising rested, to drive to the ocean.
I'm reading a fantastic book about Genghis Khan. Ghenghis Khan: the making of the new world. It wasn't so hard what he did. It was the unwaveringness with which he stuck to his vision and principles. Well, okay, it was hard. But it was hard for the right reasons, not all the more-typical wrong ones.
Like, when he was a serious Khan with an army of horsemen numbering in the hundreds of thousands, he set up a principle of having every major commander & noble send him their son and their son's best friend. Not to keep as hostages to be killed in case of the commander's bad behaviour, as was usual; but to be trained and educated as a corps of replacements for incapable commanders. It worked great -- the commanders were more incented to keep their jobs, the kids got educated and became great administrators, and over time, all the families became tied to the Khan's inner circle through their kids.
I am having that feeling of glorious self-care.
The wonderful thing in Bergamo is to do nothing in Bergamo. A coffee when you feel like it. Sleeping until you are slept out.
It is with tremendous indulgence that I choose to be here blogging at Kinko's... before sleeping well in my own bed... before rising rested, to drive to the ocean.
I'm reading a fantastic book about Genghis Khan. Ghenghis Khan: the making of the new world. It wasn't so hard what he did. It was the unwaveringness with which he stuck to his vision and principles. Well, okay, it was hard. But it was hard for the right reasons, not all the more-typical wrong ones.
Like, when he was a serious Khan with an army of horsemen numbering in the hundreds of thousands, he set up a principle of having every major commander & noble send him their son and their son's best friend. Not to keep as hostages to be killed in case of the commander's bad behaviour, as was usual; but to be trained and educated as a corps of replacements for incapable commanders. It worked great -- the commanders were more incented to keep their jobs, the kids got educated and became great administrators, and over time, all the families became tied to the Khan's inner circle through their kids.
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