drama bug

for the last three days ive woken up with lines from hamlet in my head. this is not surprising, ive been re-reading it non-stop since i saw the play last wednesday (and watched a film version i hadnt seen the week before to gear up for the performance) and yes, im fully aware of how weird/nerdy/dorky that is. some of you might not know (tho i dont know how you would have missed this) that i was an english lit major in college and was kinda a closet theatre major, which manifested in many ways, not the least of which was that i took at least 3 shakespeare courses (one of which was taught in london where i saw 6 of the 7 plays we studied on stage). this after having read at least 6 shakespeare plays in high school and growing up going to 'wayne v-- patron of the arts night' every summer since i was 10 years old which entailed attending whatever performance of shakespeare oak park festival theatre was presenting that year at austin gardens. so, yeah. i cut my teeth on this stuff and have spent a lot of time with a few of the plays, whether seeing them, reading them, or writing papers about them. twelfth night (for obvious reasons) king lear (for no special reason) and hamlet (for reasons to be divulged below) are the three i know incredibly well.
somehow in all of this, you might be surprised to know that tho i have been a part of quite a few theatre productions over the years, i have never once acted shakespeare. i say this as a form of transparency. i dont have first-hand knowledge of the language in my mouth for hours at a time, nor the embodiment of a shakespearean character in my self. truth is, i would love to. viola has always resonated strongly with me (that should have been a clue at some point), and when i stop lying to myself and just come out with it, hamlet is my dream role. (yes, im aware of how self-dramatizing and exactly like every stereotypically-full-of-themselves actor that is. i know, i know. [insert slight self-deprecating head shake here]) but its true. i would kill to play hamlet. or maybe i should say i would wait to kill until the very last moment possible when im practically already dead, to play hamlet.

the point that i started out to make is that ive been living and breathing this play recently and i think i have a pretty damned good idea of how i would want it to be done if ever i were a part of producing it. (i promise you now that i will never ever propose directing and starring in it, tho id like to do both, separately...) right, point being: i want a queer hamlet.
i want a hamlet who used to be with laertes, then moved on to ophelia when her brother left the country, has had a thing going with horatio for some time that comes to a head (pun intended) during the course of the play, used to mess around with rosencrantz (whose new boy is guildenstern), flirts with guildenstern out of spite, has probably played with at least one of the players, and generally runs the whole show by flirting with everyone.
i want the nunnery scene with ophelia to be a coming out moment, i want his speech to horatio about how good a friend he is to end up in a make-out session, i want all of his interactions with the players to impress the fact that he is playing all of the time with everyone (and is a ham himself), i want the closet scene to be like sisters talking about the men in their lives, i want every interaction with R&G to be lewd and dirty as hell, i want ophelias madness to also stem from her discovery that hamlet and her brother used to do it, i want laertes' anger with hamlet to be partially fear of being outed, i want most of his 'antic disposition' and wordplay to be more along the lines of being a diva, (with lots of camp, even queening) and flirting, all of that coming to a peak with the osric scene. the point being he knows how to control people and when there are a lot of them paying too close attention to him for any actual revenge to happen. therefore he 'speaks daggers but uses none' and flirts with those who enjoy it to get what he wants, and with those who dont to make them uncomfortable.
and the best part is, i promise im not just making shit up. i mean, kinda, but everyone is allowed interpretation from the text. but honestly, the text can support all of these things. there are so many cock jokes in this play i cant even count them.
do me a favor. re-read hamlet with these things in mind and tell me if it isnt one of the most fun and biting and dramatic shows you can think of.
signed,
ray i-wish-shakespeare-could-be-my-boyfriend van fox

life in training...

I think about train tracks a lot these days. I guess this isnt different than my normal way of being, tho. Im pretty much always aware of where the train tracks are in relation to myself. That started growing up next to a huge expressway that had both the L tracks and a freight line or two that ran along next to the lanes of traffic. The bridge I walked over on my way home from school took me over that torrent of travel and id play around with trying to get the big rigs to honk for me, or stand up close to the fencing and look over when a semi passed underneath, pretending the top of the trailer was the ground I stood on, getting vertigo and feeling like falling over. Sometimes id just stare at the lanes upon lanes of cars driving both into and out of downtown chicago, my view reminiscent of the video game 'frogger,' feeling the movement like choreography in my body, the vibration of the engines rumbling thru my legs and chest. Id watch from both sides of the bridge, sometimes catching the attention of the cars below, sometimes trying to spit on their roofs. It was the urban kids version of pooh sticks I played at, whiling the time away, hoping to be able to stay till the moment when the setting sun glinted directly off the skyscrapers, making their windows all look golden. It felt kinda miraculous cuz you had to be in the right place at the right time on the right day to see it and having caught it once or twice has stuck with me over the years as a personal triumph. Back then, those train tracks meant either the way into the city, if you were focusing on the loud and frequent rapid transit trains, or a slow link to the country, if you felt like paying attention to the creeping, tired looking freight cars which never seemed to go anywhere but then were gone. Being a city kid with no use for the country i focused on those L trains which were my link to the city as a high schooler, but maybe more importantly, which were the rhythm of my young life. they punctuated the aural landscape of my entire childhood, they could be heard every 10ish minutes passing nearby, if the windows were open or it was quiet, you could hear them inside. if you were outside, you couldnt get away from them, distracting a free throw at alley basketball, interrupting a conversation on the patio, the background noise of every kick the can or capture the flag game played on my block. my memories of summer nights as a child are characterized by the alternately rousing and lulling sounds of the blue line L train.

I went to a college in the middle of rural iowa that was founded at the intersection of two freight train lines, a north/south and an east/west. the n/s tracks actually went thru campus, cutting off my dorm from the academic buildings, slicing thru our pathways without so much as a light or a gate. I could stand as close as I wanted to the tracks as the train passed, I could leave a penny on the rail and have something super thin and smooth left over. I could walk for an hour on the tracks, balancing on a rail the whole time, as a study break, (or a social break as the school was so small sometimes it felt hard to get away from everyone) a half hour out, another half hour back. Or id walk to a preferred place and stop to think before heading back. 15 minutes north and youd be in the middle of corn fields, 15 minutes south and you could settle yourself on one of the ties that made up the tiny bridge over 2nd ave and watch the slow part of town take its time going by. These walks were always done to clear my head by concentrating on something going out far beyond myself, guiding me forward, making me keep my balance on a 3 inch wide piece of steel. It was a way of calming my mind and body, making me think about nothing academic, theoretical or emotional, simply letting me concentrate on spacial and physical dynamics and movements until I could get to the point of not concentrating on them at all. Putting body and visual sense on autopilot and letting my brain free associate or come to a realization about a problem, or simply exist in the physical world around me. It was walking meditation at its best and gave me a deep sense of peace in the knowledge that I became very good at making my way down those rails which were always spanning ahead, always allowing me to see beyond myself and away to parts unknown. The sense of anticipation for the future, of welcoming adventure, of travel as opportunity that had started on a bridge over 290 in chicago was crystallized into true love of movement there. The low wail of the train whistle rolling past my dorm room at 4am that had started out as a referent to the trains I used to hear at home, came to remind me that there always would be a way of constantly moving forward without forgetting where youd been.

Mostly these days I think about train tracks as my route to my destination via amtrak. Ive become kinda obsessed with taking the train everywhere I go. It means I get to see a lot more of the country than I would flying, as I seem to bounce back and forth between chicago and the west coast quite often. It is so much more interesting to while away a day staring out at the tan grasses of montana or the sulfur yellow rocks of utah than spend 4 fours with white clouds hurrying past. What do I have to hurry for? All ive got is time. The only thing in my life is the journey. The destinations I pick have friends and loved ones at them, which is marvelous and I will enjoy when I get there. but sometimes my travel time is the only time I have totally to myself, and extending it to be a couple days long (especially when a train ticket costs the same as a plane ticket but by definition includes a place to sleep for two nights) gives me a welcomed break from being a guest somewhere. I therefore think of my time on trains as a retreat. This last trip from seattle to chicago I didnt even bring a book, which necessitated that I either write or sleep. I did a lot of both. 2 letters, a childrens book idea, some work on a story, 1 and a half blog posts, and a lot of time with my dear hamlet, re-reading the play, making cuts, thinking about how I would direct it (this is a blog post waiting to happen, coming soon). Its amazing how much work you can get done with almost 3 days of no internet access...
the thing about train tracks and train travel that I think I started wanting to say back when I was rumbling thru minnesota, is that they immediately connote meditation for me. I mean, of course people get up and move around and get to know their fellow passengers on trains in a way you never could do on a plane, so there is a sociable aspect to it, but still, you are passing thru countryside, some of which cant be seen unless you are on a train (there are no roads there) at a pace that gives you time to mull over the shifting landscape (without the distraction of other cars on a road) and to feel the changes from one geographical location to the next. To remember how yesterday iowa was so softly green and today nevada is so violently red. To contemplate how different life must of necessity be between hilly maryland and west virginia and flat ohio and indiana. To be fully aware of each of the 2000 miles separating life in seattle from life in chicago and all the places and lives in between. Gives you time to get used to the difference, because the change is so much less drastic and you can see the evolution.
All this said, and I have yet to talk about the rhythm. The train for me is a place where listening to music is not needed because there is always this back beat rhythm of the wheels on the rail seams, the swinging sway of the cars on the tracks, the periodic ritardando and accelerando of entering and leaving stations. those stops become the pauses between songs when everyone gets antsy while waiting expectantly for the silence to quit being so loud and the train's music to start its lullaby again. Which is not to say that I dont ever listen to music on the train, my choices just have to be the kind that move in the same way. Yo la tengo's 'and then nothing turned itself inside out' was exactly suited for a grey/blue-misty-mountainous western montana morning, and (yes, ill admit it) counting crow's 'august and everything after' made for a marvelous golden-brown-sunny-rangeland eastern montana afternoon. Fleet foxes' self-titled was perfect. Just perfect.
but this traveling rhythm is important to keep me aware of the movement of the train, my movement thru life, my memories of travel, my plans for future places, my simultaneous awareness of where i am, where ive been and where i want to be. every L train near my house, every rail balancing step ive taken, every train trip that has taken me to a temporary home with loved ones, has comforted me with the familiarity and promise that my travel equals my life. and i trust the train to take me thru it. i know no other way.

already im cheating

this is an excerpt from a story ive been writing on since april. this scene i just read thru on the train this weekend and cleaned up to be exactly how i want it. its about a couple roomates coming over to their friends house to make dinner for them cuz the friend just went thru a difficult breakup and is kinda lonely. i feel like it works well (and reminds me very strongly of seattle which im already missing) and am still in the middle of two other posts that arent done yet, so this is what im posting for today. (dont hate)

We are just sitting down to eat our thrown together dinner when robin jumps up and says, 'lets serve ourselves and then take the food into the yard.' we oblige. I turn the stereo speakers toward the open window and raise the volume while robin grabs a bottle of wine and three glasses and jay stacks loaded plates up a well-trained forearm. We step outside and I arrange the lawn chairs under the tree in a tight circle and robin brings the low table into the center. Jay sets the table while robin opens and pours the wine and I marvel at the simple beauty of this moment together. The sun is a hand's breadth from the horizon, but it'll sink fast, and the horizontal glow is catching everyone and everything just right. The color and aroma of the food, the glint of the wine glasses, jay and robins tawny and dark heads both catching a bit of red fire in the golden summer sun. we are all relaxed, comfortable with each other and the mundane interaction around this thrown together meal. But it feels so very precious. Special in its sameness to so many other evenings, the habit of sharing our lives together so engrained. Im shocked by the swell of gratitude in me, warming my chest, filling my throat, my eyes for just a second. I turn away so the others don't see and I hear them giggle about some small clumsiness with the bottle opener. I hear a squeak and a smack and turn around to see the wine already poured and robin's face coming away from jay's, both of them smiling. That was a kiss, not the cork.
'my sincere thanks, dearest jaybird.' robin almost whispers to jay. Then turns and comes close to me, putting a hand to my cheek. 'you too, darling kit. This is marvelous. really.' turning to grab jay's shoulder with a free hand, the other now on my neck. 'I couldn't have asked for a more lovely evening. Or more lovely people to share it with.'
'its just mac and cheez, rob.' jay says with a laugh.
'I know, but look at this. Its vegan and homemade, with fresh, organic asparagus and a smoked paprika garnish. And the salad has such exotic things in it, and practically everything is from what I had lying about the kitchen. you two are wizards.'
'ill admit to being pretty good at pulling somewhat inspired meals out of even the most mediocrely stocked cupboard...' jay's pride here is well founded.
'which is all ours ever is anyway.' I concede with a smirk.
'however you succeeded, i'm infinitely grateful. Eating alone is second only to cooking for just myself in sure-fire ways of depressing me beyond belief. So again, thank you, my loveliest of neighbors and dearest friends.'

this is it: life imitates art

this is it: the first day of the rest of my month. my first entry of 30.
wrote this on the 48hr (spanning 3 days and two nights) train from seattle to chicago where i didnt have a book to read, internet access, nor anything but spotty cell phone service. it was a mini writing retreat in and of itself. and now im in chicago and gearing up for a hectic month of stage managing and working and writing. bring it, november!

so im sitting at a table outside joe bar last friday, my last full day in seattle, writing in my journal about the version of hamlet id taken a bunch of people to on wednesday, and how i would direct it were i to ever have that chance, and this person walks up to my table, flashes a bright, blue-eyed smile at me and says 'hi, nice to see you again. im charlie, and you are...?' i respond appropriately, we shake hands. he continues as he sits down in the chair at the table next to mine, 'sorry i was in a weird mood when you first introduced yourself...' i interrupt with 'well i was in a really big hurry, so...' and he proceeds to very naturally get to know me in an easy, charming, open and bright way that feels quite familiar. his eye contact is steady and clear in its desire to connect, his face hovers on the verge of a smile most of the time.
We talk about anything from our art, where we are from, where we live, what gets us up in the morning, to how we both like to write with our left hands backwards, how we share the penchant for writing notes to ourselves with pen on our forearms. He uses his hands to map out the visual nature of possible moves in a chess game, as if he is showing me some fine-tuned choreography, and my whole understanding of how to play opens up. He tries to illustrate the shape of the sculpture series he is working on and I grasp it conceptually, but not visually.
I speak of the end result of a theatre production in the same terms one uses to describe that moment of pure sound when a choir singing exactly in tune can create an overtone, that aural evidence of the whole being more than the sum of the four part harmonies. That Something greater that can always come of collaboration. The phantom note that shows you are right in the sweet spot of your art, your life, (same thing) that can resonate beyond yourselves and your collective efforts and touch others even when it doesnt exist anywhere but within the joining of your separate voices. I say out loud and later write furiously about the fact that this resonating tone, applied to all sorts of moments (Stone soup, loaves and fishes, fermentation, photosynthesis, human evolution, synapse firing memory, a cake, a shared meal, a song, a family, a community, love) is my definition of god.
Our conversation goes far beyond ourselves, and finding the places we resonate as artists is much more fulfilling than learning the specifics of our lives and histories. I basically already knew he grew up in the midwest, just graduated from cornish, does print making, and lives in a large collective house in the cd. None of that matters. Neither does his passing resemblance to someone ive made up. What I found to be revelatory was knowing that he too prefers working collaboratively, and loves being a part of a team, but tho he has dabbled with music, it is visual art, whether drawing, painting, print making or sculpture--each a practice as solitary as writing--that resonates with his soul, blossoms from his perception, feeds his desire to create and anchors him in his life. What I needed most right before ending my month-long writing retreat was to meet another artist that is figuring out how to balance the time they need alone to create and the time they need to connect with friends and community. This is not a rare difficulty for people. Most of us struggle with it. i find if I spend all my time alone I have nothing to write about anymore. I need human interaction to help fill up my storehouse of stories to tell. This is how artist communities get founded. This is why there are writing groups, shared studio spaces, multi-use venues, art schools, coffee shops. This is why I go to joe bar to sit among people and read and write and watch and make up stories and tell stories and meet people or get to know them without meeting them. This is why the month that I will be at rehearsal for paul's show every day I will also be posting a blog to balance things out inside me. And to keep myself in practice.
My new friend charlie gives me his card and a hug upon leaving. We promise to find each other on facebook. I realize how glad I am to know this person. this very separate person from my self (or any of the people occupying my head), but one that is working on some of the same things I am. He truly is someone I should have known. And tho he is almost a decade younger than I, we might be at similar places in our paths, or at least on the same curve of the spiral. close enough to wave, compare notes, and give encouragement.
And in case you were wondering, his stuff is amazing.

conversations are easier when you control both sides

this is a true story and im only slightly ashamed to tell it. here is a little insight into one neurotic writer's mind:
so a couple weeks ago i noticed this cute boy hanging out at my favorite coffee shop, joe bar, and i couldnt stop looking. but this sort of thing happens to people: they see someone who hangs out where they like to hang out and they take notice of him cuz they find him attractive. now, a normal person (if those exist) would most likely say, 'wow, hes cute. maybe i should talk to him.' or 'gosh, hes good looking but im here to do some writing and hes with a friend so ill leave it at that.'
i, on the other hand, find myself totally fascinated with him and let my concentration on my work go slack because im (only somewhat surreptitiously) watching him, without any thought of caring if im noticed or of introducing myself. three times on three different days, always in the evening, this happens. it takes me a while to realize why i cant stop looking over at him, like worrying a loose tooth. its because he looks like a grown-up peter pan. i mean, its also because of the fact that he decides to sit directly in my line of vision every time. hes an artist of some kind (im almost positive he goes to cornish), in all likelihood an actor or musician, (which i 'know' cuz i can see the performative aspect of his interactions with people and his reaction to my gaze), and i think he kinda likes it. of course, because he notices me noticing him, he looks over more frequently than he otherwise would, checking to see if im still checking him out, as if compelled to scratch an itch. im amused by this, but not necessarily encouraged to make his acquaintance. i feel like i already know him at this point. i have made a study of his clothes, his movements, and his manner with people. i feel like i can tell if he likes someone he runs into by his body language. note: im never close enough to hear his voice, but i feel id almost recognize it.
and then this week i see him at the wildrose (it was taco tuesday and i was meeting a bunch of friends who live on the hill) and it changes everything. okay not everything. but it ups the ante. cuz now i wonder if hes queer. before he just looked like someone i should know somehow. now he looks like someone i could potentially date. and thats when i start mentioning him to the friends im drinking with and blowing this thing way out of proportion. before he was just an interesting study, pulling at my imagination like a child pulls on your pant leg for attention. now its a full blown crush. and it gets out of hand enough that he prolly hears me talking about him (hes at the next table for christs sake) and i keep joking about going up to talk to him. he even gives me a perfect opportunity to do so, he takes his time getting his bag from under the table and putting it on right in front of me at the moment that all of our friends have left the vicinity. but he has his back to me and i cant muster the desire to break the fourth wall. cuz right now he is a character in my head. once i speak with him he gets a life of his own. and im not actually ready for that. and thats when i realize its not just that he looks like peter pan, he looks remarkably similar to the vision i have in my head of one of the main characters in a story im writing. this boy could be my robin. ive created a folder on my hard drive of downloaded photos of celebrities that approximate my image of this character, but i havent found an exact likeness that fits right. this boy is extremely close. not quite genderqueer enough in outward presentation, but seeing him here in this queer context, i realize he is one of the closest things ive found. put him in a fishermans sweater instead of a lumberjack shirt, and he would be spitting distance from my robin. its a bit hard to take.
so the next afternoon i happen to be in the neighborhood of joe bar and decide to go sit for a while and write before taking myself out to a movie (nowhere boy, see previous post) and i start mulling over this boy being my main character and how to handle it. and how i really need to introduce myself when i see him next, cuz otherwise im bordering on creepy. but how would i introduce myself to my own creation? so i do that thing where i start thinking up what i would say to him and then i wonder how he would react, so i start to write a scene between the two of us as if i did walk up and say something like, 'you look like this character in my story'. and of course it feels perfectly normal to be putting words into this real live persons mouth because its so like putting words into my characters mouth, and also, a lot easier than actually interacting with him. note: im high on caffeine at this point. im also feeling a little dirty cuz this is basically fantasizing about this person, and amused at myself because the interaction on paper doesnt go particularly well, just as it wouldnt in real life. and at some point i have to stop writing to go to the movie, annoyed that ive completely ruined any chance of ever being able to step up to this real live person and naturally introduce myself. not that knowing him was ever really the goal, its just once you give yourself lines for real life you either deliver them like they were rehearsed, or veer from the script so widely you sound like a moron. (and by 'you' i of course mean me.)
i watch the movie and am inspired by john lennon as a teenager and need to write some stuff down, so i walk back over to joe bar, buy a beer and sit in a corner. and i cant find my fountain pen. its the only thing i write with anymore and i used it in the movie theatre and im afraid i lost it there. so i rush back over, borrow an ushers flashlight, despair, leave my email address with the attendant in case it turns up, and go back to search my bag again, hoping i overlooked it. i had. im so relieved my hands are shaking slightly. ive had this pen since i graduated high school and have logged hours upon hours of writing with it in the last fourteen years. i just got it back into working order two months ago, at the same time my writers block dissolved, and i would prolly have a breakdown if i lost it.
however, crisis averted and boy sighted. had to walk past him on my wild goose chase and now the adrenaline over the pen is spiked with seeing this person i was intentionally writing myself into contact with a couple hours ago. but i go to calm down, drink my beer and write about john lennon reminding me of my thirteen year old self and how neglectful of that young person ive been. i decide on paper to start being more willing to express myself, (ready or not) to be more impulsive and just do things, not merely think about them. and now im high on purpose and passion and living life (not just watching it) and being a writer (not just talking about it) and now i have to leave to walk home and eat something before having drinks with friends in the cd.
at this point i have caffeine, adrenaline, and alcohol, john lennon and my 13 yr old self, robin and my made-up version of this boy all creating a bit of chaos in my head. so before i walk out of joe bar, knowing this is a bad idea and the exact worst moment to do it, with my pulse hard and flushing my cheeks, i stop just behind the boy and tap him on the forearm. he interrupts his conversation, turns around and i look him in the eye and say, 'hi, my name is ray.' i extend my right hand to shake his, which he gives in a somewhat limp-wristed manner just like robin would do and says 'im murmhumurner' in a voice i very decidedly do *not* recognize. and i say, 'trevor?' and he says, only the slightest bit louder and more distinctly, 'charlie.'
and whatever i was holding together, falls apart. 'charlie,' i say, 'its nice to meet you.' and i nod to his friend, adjust my satchel on my shoulder and walk away. not 'you look like someone i should have known once,' not even 'i feel like ive made enough eye contact with you now that you should at least know my name,' not what i actually wrote in my notebook, just 'nice to meet you.' i prolly had a scowl on my face, even. the scene had ended before it began. i am simultaneously proud and disgusted with myself for this. i went right over to the smoke shop nearby, bought myself a zippo and a pack of cigarettes and walked home while smoking a nat sherman. note: im not a smoker. and then i drank enough whiskey at the twilight to feel the need to check my jeans pocket upon waking the next morning for the credit card id used to start a tab. and now im blogging like a maniac.
and this, my friends, i call a success. and none of it has anything to do with that person named charlie. never did.

again, by heart.

multiple things in the past couple days have inspired and motivated me to finally, really, actually blog. and not just put things ive written up in this space once in a while, but actually post with frequency, even regularity.
one thing was watching joseph gordon-levitt sing on youtube, (i know, i know) because it reminded me of just needing to put yourself out there, and because it brought me to this totally awesome website. which kinda seems amazing as a community and collaborative outlet. please check it out, if only for the short movie 'morgan and destiny's eleventeenth date: the zepplin zoo.' its pretty marvellous.
another thing was watching nowhere boy which i knew i needed to see, despite whether it was good or not, simply to reconnect with my idol from when i was thirteen. it did that. i dont think i agree with the review of the movie in this weeks new yorker but thinking back on it now, it wasnt a particularly good film. it was, however, a portrait of a passionate teenage boy who needed to step out of his life and into his art. and it did, thankfully, remind me of myself as a passionate teenage tomboy with nowhere to put my artistic energy. cuz it made me realize ive been feeling that way for all the years since then and its time i stopped pretending im not a writer.
cuz the thing about being a writer is that its actually a really lonely art form. (hence my tendency towards performative, collaborative art forms like theatre and music) i was really lucky to spend the past three weeks alone in a house in order to write more. i ended up getting some work done, but mostly just spent the time pretending i wasnt a writer by pretending i wasnt alone and spending way too much time on facebook, youtube, hulu, gchat, and netflix. but this week joe and john helped me realize that if im gonna be on the internet that much trying to both express myself to others and find some sort of interaction to work off of, i should be doing it here. i should be putting my stuff up for people to respond to it. thats the reason i write anyway, to tell people stories and start a conversation. having one or two people im accountable to doesnt seem to do the trick. having an audience, making the act of writing into a performance, hopefully that will be the kick in the pants ive needed to get past the bullshit excuses im really good at making up and actually practice my art.
so heres the deal: for the month of november (nanowrimo) i vow, right now, in front of you all, that i will publish a blog post once a day. it might be something im interested in that day, it might be a snippet from something im working on, it might be anything, however it cant just be a link to something or an idea that only takes up the 420 characters allowed in a facebook status update. the point is to go beyond the more trivial ways of expressing myself i get caught up in and frustrated by on facebook, but with more community involvement than just my notebook. and yes, i realize that is what a blog was made for. i just havent ever figured out how to fully engage with it and have it work for me with actual regularity.
so here we are, blog. next month i will strive to be a writer with discipline, fella. i wanna be your steady date. i wanna hit record (or publish), and then hit it again. again, by heart.
keep me honest, folks. i need you.

Consider the considered lobster

living in new hampshire with ro and eli this august really made me think about my food politics and why I am vegan, which was awesome. It meant that I partook in more non-vegan things than normal, because they were still within the parameters that I feel myself keeping now. Namely: can I see with my own eyes that the food is produced locally, sustainably, humanely and hopefully with some love and understanding around the value of life? If so, i'll eat it. Which meant I did things like drink goat's milk from the farm nearby after having met the goats and heard the 13 year old son tell us about them. He was pretty proud even if he professed to hate living on a farm.
In talking with ro about carbon footprints and processes that are bad for the environment I was made more aware than previously of the fact that vegan eating isn't necessarily that much better for the environment if you are eating processed stuff, and not just Quorn fake chicken nuggets, but soy milk and tofu even, which tend to be made from soy beans grown on huge monoculture farms and require a ton of processing—water and energy consumption and such...
all of which I know and have had to let go of on the grounds that 1) I dont really eat that much processed stuff (i've never been that into 'fake meat') and 2) at least i'm not participating in the inhumane treatment, killing, and wasting of animals. I want to never partake in that huge corporate factory farming economy in any way, if I can help it. Which means that, no, I wont eat the 'cage free' eggs from whole foods if they cant tell me what farm they come from, and no it doesn't matter if you bought an organic 'free range' turkey from costco for thanksgiving i'm still not gonna partake. One, 'organic' and 'free range' have somewhat uninspiring meanings these days and two, costco? Really? Can we get any more removed from the sources of our food?
Until I know the owner of the chickens (or they are mine) and can buy a turkey i've seen alive and enjoying life before becoming our dinner, I will refrain, but thank you for the offer.
So, with these thoughts in mind as well as conversations with ro about fishing, its sustainability, and the history of the seafood 'industry' in new england with local guys and their boats out being careful to maintain populations, I decide, if im less than 100 miles from the coast of new hampshire and we can find a local lobster guy, I should prolly test this whole working-within-my-vegan-politics-but-eating-non-vegan thing. Push the envelope a bit past goats milk.
So, we find a roadside store that is owned by the guy who actually fishes the coast and runs the lobsters over fresh and they live in a large, well maintained tank at the store, and we buy 3 chick lobsters (for $5 each!) and take them home to eat. We have done a bit of research and decide to steam them in a big pot, which is supposed to be tastier than boiling, but I want to kill them quickly first instead of making them die slowly of heat. Cuz I hate the idea of boiling them alive anyway, but boiling is one thing, and steaming them to death seems like quite another.
And I know everyone says lobsters dont feel pain like we do, and I believe that. They dont feel pain like humans because we have evolved to a point of self-consciousness which means we tend to also have mental anguish attached to our pain. But crustaceans, tho they dont have the same kind of nervous system we do, still have some kind of basic way of feeling stuff so that they can get along in the world, and all living things react to a sensation that will be detrimental to themselves in order to survive. Even plants, when hooked up to diodes, show electricity spikes when you break off a leaf. Is this pain in the sense that we use it for ourselves? I dunno. But it stands to reason that lobsters, as animals, know when they are being hurt and are going to die. If you pulled the legs off a spider you'd see it squirm, this can't be any different. Because I feel this way, I wanted to basically chop thru their main nerve center (i.e. brain) and kill them as quickly as possible. The idea of being witness to their death felt so much better than just putting a lid over them as they expired.
So, when we were ready with the pot on the stove, I took the first one out of the fridge, rinsed it off, handed it to ro who held him on the chopping board with a towel, took a chef's knife and held it pointing downward with the tip poised above the back of his head. then I poked the knife all the way thru till it hit wood, and then pulled the handle downward, thru the front of the head, right between the eyeballs, with a motion like I was pulling a slot machine lever. Then I watched the poor thing struggle and twitch and take a good 30 seconds to actually stop living. It was horrifying and made me sick to my stomach. Everything i'd read about this method of killing lobsters said it completely severed their nerve center and they died really quickly, like close to instantly, tho sometimes their was a twitch or two left in them right after. This guy, however, was still moving and breathing and would prolly have been saying some profound last words to us if we had any lobster communication skills, and it was incredibly painful to watch. And I tried my damnedest not to take my eyes off him the entire time. There in front of me was what looked like an immense amount of suffering at my hands, it would go against everything in me to ignore it. But my god, it was hard to watch. I witnessed his death with an aching heart, an overturned stomach, a catch in my throat and the itch of tears behind my eyes. And there were still 2 more to go.
The second one went quicker, but still seemed to linger longer than I would have ever wished on any living creature, so by the third one I must have looked a bit despondent, cuz ro offered to kill it. She picked a spot on the back of the head for the tip of her knife that was further back than I had gone, and no sooner had the thunkchunk of the knife finished its path thru the head than this lobster flinched once and was dead. I was so grateful to not have to hold it still as it slowly kicked its last that I almost cried in relief. Or despair. I had been cutting in the wrong place. Well, not wrong, but not optimal. Which means I could have spared the suffering of the first two had I done it correctly. Forgive me, lobsters, for I know not what I do. My god. A humbling experience in every way. If I ever kill again, which I will have to decide if my heart and soul can handle taking another life before trying, I vow to know exactly how to do it in the quickest, most humane way possible, preferably after having watched it done right by an expert. Given that I am the child of a father who says a prayer for every dandelion he uproots, i'm not so sure at this point if killing, let alone slaughtering, are within my realm of ability. Not physically, mind you, but emotionally and spiritually. I guess, as long as I did it with a spiritual mindset in a way that honored the creature, I probably could. I'm sure the entire time those 2 lobsters were leaking their lifeforces out onto the table, every second found me praying for their suffering to be over. I was also extremely aware of the fact that their death was to further my life, to nourish and sustain me and my friends and in that way at least they didn't die in vain. That amounts to prayers of gratitude in my book.
By the time dinner was served my body and emotions had calmed down enough to be prepared to enjoy the experience of eating this animal, of feeding myself with an (until recently) living creature, to partake in the process of turning its flesh into my own.
I systematically took apart my lobster and found every bit of meat in it, remembering that I had to chew a lot more than I do when eating plant matter, which made the meal a meditative process for me. The searching for and working to exhume the morsels, the tasting and chewing and contemplating and swallowing all succeeded in humbling me further, even as the massive protein high cam into effect.
We hadn't really bothered with anything in the way of side dishes for the meal, and I was glad of that. There was nothing to divert my focus from my meal that had once been its own entity enjoying a life in the atlantic, catching, killing and eating its own meals.
As traumatic as the lead-up to this sounds, it was a delicious and satisfying meal. The biologist in me really loved looking at all the different parts of the creature and I appreciated getting to interact with the carcass as a whole. not that I really needed a reminder that I was eating an animal, but just to be aware of it as an entire being. So often people eat something like chicken nuggets or even just buy ground beef, or boneless, skinless chicken breasts—pieces of meat that look nothing like the animal they came from. We are good at distancing ourselves from the sources of our food here in america and I remember appreciating the opposite of that in china, even if it made me feel a little queasy to see a turtle on a plate that looked like it could get up and walk away. Getting to break into the lobster shell with my hands and fish out the flesh was a very intimate way of dealing with this animal while treating it as food. It was a bit of a scavenger hunt and a way of really deeply knowing 'he who is now your dinner.' no shying away from this process of eating an animal, not at any point from start to finish.
And it wasnt even finished. After we had gleaned every bit of meat out of the lobsters' shells, we boiled them overnight in the crock pot to make lobster broth, the smell of which was very strong and permeated my dreams. And then, of course, there were the dishes. And the lobster pot took some scrubbing. I waited a while to do the dishes, and at that point I was ready to forget the fact that my dinner had been alive, but the reminder was there in the smell of the leftover cooking water and the hardened scum on the pot that was much more pungent and stubborn than any plant matter could be. My stomach thought hard about turning again, but the only thing that could make the evening's meal harder to cope with would be to throw it up, so I resisted the urge, plugged my nose to the smell of crustacean death, and dug in with soap and water.
The house ended up smelling like seafood for a couple days, tho I doubt ro and eli noticed. Animal food is so much stronger in flavor and smell than plant food and I forget sometimes how finely calibrated my senses are now that I deal only with more delicate ones. When others wouldn't notice the bacon fat or even butter in something, I find that it has a really strong showing in my mouth. Which is not to say its gross. On the contrary. If I smell something with meat in it cooking I will invariably say, 'wow, that smells good.' cuz it does. Animals and animal products taste good. Show me a vegan who says they don't miss cheese and i'll show you someone who is either a liar or delusional.
Cuz yeah, in case you missed this part, im just gonna put it out there again: lobster is delicious! Really tasty, almost sweet, and really succulent if you cook it in salt water cuz it retains more of the flavor and tastes a bit like the sea. It was very obvious to all of my senses that I was consuming something oceanic. And I loved it. I came to the table with an almost religious reverence, not just for the life taken in order to eat, but for the simple scrumptious decadent delight that is fresh steamed new england chick lobster. I sat deconstructing the carcass with meditative thoroughness, not just to interact fully with this dead animal, but to delve deeply into the full sensual experience of my food. I consciously chewed each bit, not just for digestive purposes, but for gastronomic ones as well.
If I went into this endeavor with the desire to enjoy the experience of eating a lobster, I believe I succeeded. If I went into it to be fully present with an animal as I killed and consumed it, made it my food, I succeeded. If I did all of this in order to test my ability to take a life and incorporated it into my own, i'm not sure whether I passed. if I went in hoping to god I enjoyed the experience more than I abhored it, the jury is still out. If I wanted something to test my vegan parameters, I found it. If I wanted an experience I will remember for a long time, I got it. If I hoped to know if I could do it again in good conscience, i'm nowhere near sure.