Weekend miscellany

Someone texturized the ceiling of my bedroom with plaster.

Which color of ink would I use if I wrote this sentence by hand?

I read about healing and chakras today after a friend wrote me a note asking about chakras.

I intoned the vowel sounds, a, e, i, o, u….this is not IPA.

i did two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, filled the dishwasher, scrubbed down the kitchen counters, listened to the birds and crickets, went out on the deck and admired the white wisp of clouds stretched out against blue azure, caught up on the weeks tv season premieres, and looked for books that I missed.

I thought about my health as I recovered from exercises for my underutilized legs and grieved for the ease of neck movement now of days nearly forgotten. My right shoulder decides to remind me that it still exists.

I listened to the CD my sister so thoughtfully sent to me for my bday.

i tried to listen to the news and then asked, why?

I read poems written by a friend of a friend and decided to make this list.

Goodnight, sweet William, wherever you are.

“Someone complimented me on my English last summer. This was my response.”

Laura Hitt:

Always thinking about voice and identity… take a watch/listen of Amy Ginther performing in Central School of Speech and Drama in London at the Voice and Speech Trainer’s Association annual conference this past summer.

Originally posted on Vocal Context:

This is a new performance piece I wrote for the VASTA Cabaret in London this summer at my alma mater, the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. I workshopped it at Perry-Mansfield Performing Arts School and Camp, which I am quite proud to say that I am now summer faculty there, teaching Voice and Speech.

This piece has lived in me for over a year now, as the actual incident that opens the performance happened during the summer of 2013 in Brooklyn. I felt like it was important to highlight the idea that oppression does not come in only explicit, hateful forms but from the educated and millennial peers that I hang out and work with in my progressive circles.

When microaggressions happen, I don’t always want to confront the person and give them some diatribe about social justice; sometimes, I just want to drink my fucking cocktail…

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Tangled Up in Blue: Zen Practice and Depression (edited version)

Laura Hitt:

A profound writing about Zen and depression. This week I still think about the passing of Robin Williams, my own struggle with depression and my beautiful young students and their struggles with depression, anxiety, and addictions. We are all on this path together. May we breathe deeply and know that simply taking one step on a walk outdoors or take pen to page or calling a friend…or or or…we are alone and never alone. May the gifts be received by each of us. Big love to all. Truly. Laura

Originally posted on Clear View Blog:

Right now I can’t read too good

Don’t send me no more letters, no

Not unless you mail them from

Desolation Row

— from “Desolation Row” by Bob Dylan

 It starts with dread.  In a distant city, on top of the covers in a two-star hotel, ceiling fan humming and circling slowly, mosquito net shrouding the bed.  Or driving alone on the late night interstate, rolling by strip malls and chain stores.  Or walking down an everyday street, feeling empty inside. Dread has a physical quality — a dead weight on my chest and shoulders, a gnawing sensation in my stomach. Nausea.  A wish to jump out of my skin.

Within these sensation there is loneliness, despair, and the certainty of ceaseless separation.  The dread is that my life will be like this from now on, and that it always has been like this and I have been so…

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World Poetry Day

How curious, today is World Poetry Day…this was declared by the UN in 1999! Very funny. Every day is pretty much poetry day for me. Here is a short poem by Richard Wright, who wrote many haiku. Published a whole book of them actually…which I purchased and seem to have loaned to someone. So, here are two that I was able to find and like ever so. #readwritespeakthinkseepoetrynow 

I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away.

A sleepless spring night:
Yearning for what I never had
And for what never was.

-Richard Wright, from “Haiku: This Other World,” by Richard Wright
(Arcade, 1998)

Home sick

Yes, I’m “home” today. Buried under my covers. Stomach pain. Dizziness. Thinking about home…what that has ever meant, to you, and to me. Is it a location? Where we hail from? Where we currently revive ourselves? Time and again I identify the road as my familiar abode…in motion, in transit, on the go…rather than a place of stillness and rooted residence.

But one day, when young and living in NYC, in deep despair, I sat on the Lincoln Center steps outside of Juilliard. It was there that my breath became conscious. Inhalation…exhalation. I was smoking at the time…smoking a cig just having quit my waiting tables job. On those steps a moment of insight took root. Insight that unwittingly changed the contour of my life.

The one place I may not escape, until “I” is no longer, the never ceasing rhythm of inspire…expire. And so where I call “home” discovered to be born of movement, pointing to a place of flesh, bones, blood, and air. Embodiment of earth and air. This home, so often neglected, unnoticed and undervalued, stays with me, sustains me; allows for float, root, and whimsy as I search for one place to create and embrace. To allow breath of play and sigh of relief move this space of spine and heart..where a recognition, nearly forgotten, breathes deepening of interior. Home remembered of unrelenting diastole to systole…vacuum abhorrent. The heart sitting atop the dome of diaphragm that may never not reawaken to re-membering where all of us, no matter how dim our reckoning, live…at home, again.

Ruth Buzzi!

Laura Hitt:

I love the birds;) Thanks to Trav S.D. aka Travalanche for posting this.

Originally posted on Travalanche:

ruth_buzzi

Today is the birthday of comedienne Ruth Buzzi (b. 1936). I’ve always felt a special connection to her because she was born in the same hospital as me (Westerly Hospital, Rhode Island) and my parents used to boast of having drunk with her father, a sculptor and monument-maker, in local bars. She was raised in Wequetecock, Connecticut and she’s never hidden her strong Southern New England accent, which to me, always sounds like home.

Buzzi had a sort of charmed career. She studied at the Pasadena Playhouse right out of high school and got her first professional job at age 19, performing in a touring show with Rudy Vallee. She played in such tours, off-Broadway revues and summer stock for years before things started to break for her in the mid 60s. She played Dom DeLuise’s assistant in a comedy magic act, got regular shots on national tv programs…

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A Tragic Day for Public Education in North Carolina

Laura Hitt:

Why does it feel like a snowball bowling over what we once thought was a democracy?

Originally posted on Diane Ravitch's blog:

Yvonne Brannan of Public Schools First NC sent the following comment:

“It is a tragic day in NC for our public schools, their teachers and students. The cuts to education reflect a very aggressive attack on public education. Eliminating $110 million for teacher assistants, eliminating teacher tenure, eliminating class size limits for K-3, no raise again this year, all of these unnecessary cuts wipe out three decades of steady progress. The most damaging is allowing for our hard earned tax dollars to be transferred to private schools. The privatization of public schools threatens the very cornerstone of our democracy and violates our state constitution. This is beyond comprehension and represents the worst public policy I have ever witnessed in NC History. These cuts to public education will have a direct impact at the classroom level, impacting every single one of our 1.5 million public school children. The General Assembly has…

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Remembrance

Image

 

Remembrance

 

Arm and shoulder

Of the left side,

Let me introduce myself,

O, side of the imaginative

feminine.

I ready myself.

Bend the elbow

close, to hug my body.

My hand makes a fist.

I may fight, or

I may lift my arm to the sky.

But

to reach out to fly

along the contour of the horizon

where heaven  meets earth,

here re

sides pain.

My heart arm may reach up to heaven

or prepare to defend,

but to reach wide into the plane

of the plains…

this contracts into spasm, cries out.

Arms of the heart/voice

must meet the land of S/elf/ves.

To be

without defense *or* assistance.

 

The fire of injury screams out,

“how could you be so insensitive,

uncaring?! Aren’t you listening?!”  

Turning inward to explore

desire for a full bodied

voice of gesturing sound,

I discover invitations.

To partner with the dance of

the elbow, where she leads me -

deltoid shrieks and then

renews

potential

for an other kind of awareness,

for an other kind of strength.

Softening into     

                        allowing space,

courage of the heart

opening into the expanse of

two                              arms

feeling da Vinci’s Renaissance

Vitruvian, architectural/fluid expanse of

radiating

–beingness.

She stands within me.

I forgot her.

She stands within me.

I welcome her back.

She’s re-membering me

resonating.

 

Mirrors for one another

smile into this aching center

that flips into an

impulse desire for

slow dance of spine expanse,

play of

de de de

de light ed

resonance, of wails

meeting spaciousness turning

into floating fields

of vibrancy of

home.

 Laura Hitt – February 5, 2013