He may never know I write about him in this journal. And that would be a good thing. So I can feel free to imagine, as I mentioned before, to create, to instigate, to conjure ideal Love by imagining it as if it were already here with this otherworldly visualization power I seem to have. Then I will bring it closer to material by writing it. In this journal. And burying each successive thought deeper in the archives – like tulip bulbs frozen/thawing, frozen/thawing just a forgotten dream underneath layers of early winter snow and a rock cold soil. But oh the secrets these tulips will be keeping. I plant Love now by typing and burying.
Powerful magick requires incubation.
Life is powerful magick.
Driving 80mph from Chicago to Happydale Michigan, I have just begun a month long medical leave from STOMP. Both wrists in splints keeps the steering wheel from aching me and certainly makes for tedious typing. Perhaps I will learn to be more direct with my stories. But that would put an end to daydreaming and I am so, so good at it. Otherworldly, in fact. It’s like I imagine it, and there it is gathered at my feet, wide eyes looking up, waiting for me to be really really ready.
Incubation.
I guess it is my job as a Life Loving Michigan Magickian, to be in constant preparation then, so my conjurings can stand to meet me sooner. So my fate can look me in the eye. I love this preparation.
Begin:
You are sunshine through my rental car’s window. You are my favorite passenger. Engaging me in passionate, intellectual, honest conversation where ideas erect skyscrapers and subjects flow hot lava. You are adorable in my mind, an idol, yes an idol. You are an idol to me. I feel my heart double in appreciation when you roll down your window. The wind is frigid so I crank on the heater - I prefer windows down in winter, as well. We listen to cd’s for many hours straight. I agree that you have exquisite musical taste and you agree that I am an exceptional driver. I will never tailgate. You will never ask to hear AC/DC. And we will raise our voices in soulful conviction with Frank Sinatra ”no, no they can’t take that away from me.”
No, they can’t. But open car windows can. And do.
He will likely never read this. So I write, incubate, and daydream in preparation.
Tulip Bulbs
November 27, 2003
Visualize
November 18, 2003
In the beginning, there is thought. So I am going to imgagine Love and how good it can be - how present its possibility. Visualizing powerfully, with all my senses, what it looks like, sounds likes, tastes like, feels like - what Love smells like sitting right over there on the corner of my bed.
Center of Cincinnati
November 14, 2003
Beware in Cincinnati. It feels as if something bad just happened here. Or something bad is about to happen.
Our tour busses are parked right out in front of the hotel and we’ve been told to deliberately fake the door’s combination. I’m not street shy, by any means – I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen alone. I’ve lived on the south side of Chciago. But this is the first city I’ve actually locked the bus when I am inside it.
Steve McNicholas, STOMP’s other creator, paid tour a visit this week after accepting honors at the 2003 American Choreography Awards in Los Angeles. It is Steve’s second visit this year and it is always good to see him. “Passion” and “punch” were the two words used most in his note session to us. Later at a cast party, I spoke with him about the differences between the U.S. and his homeland, England. He said that in England, the center of the city is the center of the city. In the U.S., the center of the city is a ghost town and people just keep spreading out.
I started physical therapy today for my wrists, hips, knees – you name it. It dawned on me that all the energy I was spending ignoring my body’s pain in order to continue performing, was also keeping me from hoping, dreaming and being creative. Operative words being “ignore body”, you see. Oddly, as soon as I got myself to the doctor, I had this great idea for a book.
Our tour busses are parked right out in front of the hotel and we’ve been told to deliberately fake the door’s combination. I’m not street shy, by any means – I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen alone. I’ve lived on the south side of Chciago. But this is the first city I’ve actually locked the bus when I am inside it.
Steve McNicholas, STOMP’s other creator, paid tour a visit this week after accepting honors at the 2003 American Choreography Awards in Los Angeles. It is Steve’s second visit this year and it is always good to see him. “Passion” and “punch” were the two words used most in his note session to us. Later at a cast party, I spoke with him about the differences between the U.S. and his homeland, England. He said that in England, the center of the city is the center of the city. In the U.S., the center of the city is a ghost town and people just keep spreading out.
I started physical therapy today for my wrists, hips, knees – you name it. It dawned on me that all the energy I was spending ignoring my body’s pain in order to continue performing, was also keeping me from hoping, dreaming and being creative. Operative words being “ignore body”, you see. Oddly, as soon as I got myself to the doctor, I had this great idea for a book.
All The Right Reasons
(Ecopolitan Restaurant, Minneapolis)
(Ecopolitan Restaurant, Minneapolis)
November 09, 2003
A gem in the middle of a corn field. Impossible to find and confounding when you do; Minneapolis, Minnesota is definitely this year’s biggest surprise. I must admit, with a population of 300,000 I was anticipating yet another strip mall community – you know the scene: a few too many Barns and Nobel’s and a few too few brick wall murals. Apparently I was not the only traveler whose jaw hit the floor upon arrival to this Midwestern city, for game maker, Cranium Inc. just rated Minneapolis number one on their
America’s Funnest Cities list over San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York.
Yes, Minneapolis is the needle in Middle America’s haystack. And I think one of the things that makes this urban community so special is just that: it’s location location location in the heart of the Midwest. People here are listening while you talk and looking you in your eyes. They are buying vintage guitars at the resale shop and hosting spectacular haunted hayrides. They are freelancing $3 prints of their paintings from the trunk of a well-used car and they are doing it for all the right reasons.
Minneapolis has roots. One of the strongest of which is Ecopolitan Restaurant, an organic, raw vegan café situated prominently in the center of the city’s coolest neighborhood. For two stable years, Ecopolitan has been a resource center, eatery and gathering spot for the raw food community – something Austin, Seattle and cities twice Minneapolis’s size even can not boast.
Upon entering, I first noticed Ecopolitan’s moody autumn colors, dark wood floors, and a single dried flower on each sturdy table, immediately feeling nourished in that part of me that is often insatiable. It may have had something to do with Jessica, our server being so completely present, that even in small talk, I knew she had listened to every word I said. Or how the chef invited me right into the spotless kitchen to observe his majestic machete skills (I have never tasted sweeter coconut milk). Or how every young employee seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company and how grounding it felt to be in their space. Whatever it was, I knew I was home.
One of the most noteworthy aspects of the experience was that the restaurant and café seemed to be run completely by young people whom choose to ride bicycles instead of drive cars, who choose to travel instead of hide out in school, who read the Teenage Liberation Handbook instead of Cosmo…who choose the extraordinary life instead of the predictable. Chef Joe was one such young people. Not everything was his on the menu, but the best things were - mushroom pate exploding with bright gravy flavor served on a monstrous bed of baby greens, or Flax (flap) Jacks topped with fresh pineapple, strawberries, tahini and drizzled artfully with raw butterscotch. And how I achieved this honor I may never know, but I was the first ever to taste Chef Joe’s cuisine altering creation, a recipe that will soon define the raw ice cream experience nation wide: raw coconut vanilla spearmint ice cream. With a texture so appropriate and sensation so true, I insisted the dessert be added to the menu immediately…before I left town, if at all possible.
After an hour of thought provoking conversation, finding out that the kitchen produces only a small waste basket of organic garbage every 3 days, I wiped my lips with a hemp napkin. I hugged the employees and they hugged back. I thanked them and they thanked me. I left Ecopolitan feeling deeply nourished in that place that is often insatiable. What a surprise Minneapolis turned out to be.
America’s Funnest Cities list over San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York.
Yes, Minneapolis is the needle in Middle America’s haystack. And I think one of the things that makes this urban community so special is just that: it’s location location location in the heart of the Midwest. People here are listening while you talk and looking you in your eyes. They are buying vintage guitars at the resale shop and hosting spectacular haunted hayrides. They are freelancing $3 prints of their paintings from the trunk of a well-used car and they are doing it for all the right reasons.
Minneapolis has roots. One of the strongest of which is Ecopolitan Restaurant, an organic, raw vegan café situated prominently in the center of the city’s coolest neighborhood. For two stable years, Ecopolitan has been a resource center, eatery and gathering spot for the raw food community – something Austin, Seattle and cities twice Minneapolis’s size even can not boast.
Upon entering, I first noticed Ecopolitan’s moody autumn colors, dark wood floors, and a single dried flower on each sturdy table, immediately feeling nourished in that part of me that is often insatiable. It may have had something to do with Jessica, our server being so completely present, that even in small talk, I knew she had listened to every word I said. Or how the chef invited me right into the spotless kitchen to observe his majestic machete skills (I have never tasted sweeter coconut milk). Or how every young employee seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company and how grounding it felt to be in their space. Whatever it was, I knew I was home.
One of the most noteworthy aspects of the experience was that the restaurant and café seemed to be run completely by young people whom choose to ride bicycles instead of drive cars, who choose to travel instead of hide out in school, who read the Teenage Liberation Handbook instead of Cosmo…who choose the extraordinary life instead of the predictable. Chef Joe was one such young people. Not everything was his on the menu, but the best things were - mushroom pate exploding with bright gravy flavor served on a monstrous bed of baby greens, or Flax (flap) Jacks topped with fresh pineapple, strawberries, tahini and drizzled artfully with raw butterscotch. And how I achieved this honor I may never know, but I was the first ever to taste Chef Joe’s cuisine altering creation, a recipe that will soon define the raw ice cream experience nation wide: raw coconut vanilla spearmint ice cream. With a texture so appropriate and sensation so true, I insisted the dessert be added to the menu immediately…before I left town, if at all possible.
After an hour of thought provoking conversation, finding out that the kitchen produces only a small waste basket of organic garbage every 3 days, I wiped my lips with a hemp napkin. I hugged the employees and they hugged back. I thanked them and they thanked me. I left Ecopolitan feeling deeply nourished in that place that is often insatiable. What a surprise Minneapolis turned out to be.
Never Be The Same
November 04, 2003
Everyone is dressed in black. It is not a rule, but personal choice, though we all seem to have silently agreed: black will be the color of Samhain. Gowns drape and float, cloaks heavy hang, transparent fabrics blur reality’s edges. These symbols meaningless within themselves – just a color, just a dress, just an ordinary November Eve. What matters here is that we make the meaning. Better if we all agree. Best if agreed upon in silence.
Every face is a stranger’s and I find it notable how those of my religion don’t overextend themselves to meet me. Perhaps they have a diversion to mundane small talk, relying on the circle we are standing in now, every one of us holding hands and wearing black, to reveal everything we need to know about one another.
Circles, as shapes, equalize.
A woman of power stands inside this polar circle. She recites passionate poetry that on this side of the mirror, lull the mind into trance. On the Otherside, arouse chaos into form. There are photographs of the deceased on the altar and tonite we give each other permission to become fuller humans by confronting Death itself. What unites us is that we all have stood at this crossroad, or are preparing to by supporting those who have.
The birth of a child, the female’s first blood, a couple’s union, the death of a family member.... Ritual builds community by publicly acknowledging life’s milestones. It fosters healthy psyche by providing a space to safely express fears and dreams. And by using life’s milestones as a way to mark our interconnection within The Family, ritual creates a cast of Elders who are respected for their journey rather than a collection of elderly, overlooked and undervalued.
In Minneapolis I was blessed to celebrate life’s most feared milestone, the darkening of the year, the fear of the unknown, the reality of Death, in a circle of equal individuals. I walked in a stranger and left feeling I was an integral part of life’s cycle.
I am completely insignificant, yet without me, it would never be the same.
And if I have learned anything from this year's Otherworld ritual (besides community, health and respect), it is that through Death, there truly is no meaning – no answers, no point, no purpose. Not on this side of the mirror anyway. And if it is I who manifests the importance (perhaps existence) of everything I see, if it is I who breathes life into our Gods, poetry into our spirituality, histories into our race and hope into our love songs, then I sure as heck am not going to sit around hosting thought forms, habits and relationships that don’t serve me.
It is a blank canvas and we are all filling it with brush strokes. Why not choose the colors?
Every face is a stranger’s and I find it notable how those of my religion don’t overextend themselves to meet me. Perhaps they have a diversion to mundane small talk, relying on the circle we are standing in now, every one of us holding hands and wearing black, to reveal everything we need to know about one another.
Circles, as shapes, equalize.
A woman of power stands inside this polar circle. She recites passionate poetry that on this side of the mirror, lull the mind into trance. On the Otherside, arouse chaos into form. There are photographs of the deceased on the altar and tonite we give each other permission to become fuller humans by confronting Death itself. What unites us is that we all have stood at this crossroad, or are preparing to by supporting those who have.
The birth of a child, the female’s first blood, a couple’s union, the death of a family member.... Ritual builds community by publicly acknowledging life’s milestones. It fosters healthy psyche by providing a space to safely express fears and dreams. And by using life’s milestones as a way to mark our interconnection within The Family, ritual creates a cast of Elders who are respected for their journey rather than a collection of elderly, overlooked and undervalued.
In Minneapolis I was blessed to celebrate life’s most feared milestone, the darkening of the year, the fear of the unknown, the reality of Death, in a circle of equal individuals. I walked in a stranger and left feeling I was an integral part of life’s cycle.
I am completely insignificant, yet without me, it would never be the same.
And if I have learned anything from this year's Otherworld ritual (besides community, health and respect), it is that through Death, there truly is no meaning – no answers, no point, no purpose. Not on this side of the mirror anyway. And if it is I who manifests the importance (perhaps existence) of everything I see, if it is I who breathes life into our Gods, poetry into our spirituality, histories into our race and hope into our love songs, then I sure as heck am not going to sit around hosting thought forms, habits and relationships that don’t serve me.
It is a blank canvas and we are all filling it with brush strokes. Why not choose the colors?
