LIFE 501 - Laboratory (Independent Study).

It's really hard to break the blog cycle over the weekends.  Especially when you've like me lately, and blogging like SOMEBODY is reading.  I've decided to break this up by day since the outside world has proven more fruitful for revelation than the classroom was today.  This by no means is me saying that today's studies were not worth the effort to get out of bed, but the the things outside of the basement have been far more meaningful to my heart.

SATURDAY

I should tell you that I've already lied to you.  I know, it sucks, but I'm just discovering it myself.  WE had a pick-up class for Larry Singer Saturday morning where we continued to examine some scenes and exercise in sharing  a turning point moment with a classmate that we've had little contact with and having them breakdown the story into ten words.  I, admittedly was surprised when Jeena Yi asked me to partner up with her.  It's exciting to feel wanted, but I wouldn't consider her the person that I have the least contact with in the class.  She shared something personal and deeply meaningful with me, and I was in a position where I needed to share a story that I don't like telling people about.  It was a bit tough, because I figured when this thing came out, it would be with one of the brothers and maybe a few more months down the line.  But there we were, sharing, and although it was forced (in that it may not have been something willfully shared outside of an exercise) there is a sort of serenity in understanding something about someone and having them understand something about me.  It's like giving them a very small, beautiful, injured bird and knowing that they'll care for it.  We got to continue this particular exercise this morning, which I'll share with you later, because, you know... chronology.

Saturday night was set aside for some quality bonding time with the dudes of the class.  A time to relax, let loose, not talk about the program and get to know each other a bit more seriously outside of what we see of each other in class.  Only Phillip, Andy, and Ethan could make it out, but some classic moments happened.  The kind that only a good sense of humor and a bit of alcohol can induce.  Also, this happened:

We have some immensely talented musicians in our class, and honestly, sometimes it boggles my mind that we didn't all end up in some sort of twisted musical threater program.  There's a lot of love for these guys (and the ones who couldn't make it out).  Hopefully there will be much more of this over the next few years.

SUNDAY

Sunday's usually my day of rest.  The Lord's day, as I like to call it... despite some serious irreligiousness on my behalf.  It serves as a nice day of reflection and a chance to get things done.   Domesticity is key.  Yesterday however, I made an opportunity to steal away with room-mate Jessica, her co-worker Sarah, and the always amazing Graham Forden to the Museum of the Moving Image where they have this incredible temporary installation dedicated to the work of Jim Henson.  If you are like me and you grew up during the eighties (or maybe even after, I'm not sure) you have fond memories of seeing heroes like Steve Martin and Elton John on The Muppet Show, learning to count on Sesame Street, getting scared shitless at Dark Crystal, dancing your cares away to Fraggle Rock, or (in a very special admission from me to you) discovering the amazingness of, the Thin White Duke, David Bowie and maybe also learning that your sexual orientation thanks to miss Jennifer Connely in the 1986 movie Labyrinth.  Yeah, that statement just happened.  Good lord she's.... psssssshhhhhhhhhhhh!  Yikes.

See the exhibit, if you are in NYC.  If you're not, plan a trip.  Looking through sketchbooks and documentary footage and costumes and puppets and archive footage was not only an amazing trip down memory lane, but also a chance to get into the mind of a man who wanted to change the world for the better while making great and innovative art.  The man was the Jason Bourne of storytelling: anything on hand could be used to communicate an idea in a visually stunning and breathtaking way.  He respected children, and felt an obligation to enlighten them to the lessons that grown-ups had learned in a way that would be remembered. I guarantee anyone reading this can hum or sing a few bars of something that they learned from "The Street" or recount a sketch that taught something to them before it was taught to them in school.  That's a special kind of magic.  As I was looking at all of this stuff and swimming in a euphoric wonder at the work of this prolific man and his company, I was saddened at the thought that that time is gone, and I couldn't summon any one contemporary person to mind who has an artistic mission pursued with such a fervent passion.

I also found a quote amongst that many signs and pages telling of this man's work that stuck with me, because it gave me a bit of comfort from a burgeoning doubt in my mind.  I think it draws upon some ancient gestalt that only shamans and healers can tap into with such ease.  I'd like to share it with you:

"I believe that we form our lives, that we create our own reality, and that everything works out for the best.  I know I drive some people crazy with what seems to be ridiculous optimism, but it has always worked out for me."

-Jim Henson

That was the closest I could come to Kermit Green, which I think is totally appropriate!

I left the museum, (which you should also check out if you are interested, as an artist, in motion picture and television, because there lies your history) fully inspired by the sense of experimentation and exploration and passion.  I can only hope to apply it from here on in.

MONDAY

I've been riding the train in to school as of late because the M60 has been so horrendously unreliable as of late.  I'll take the NQ down to Times Square and hop the 123 back up to 116th.  I was fortunate enough to witness something today that really grabbed me.  There was a foreign girl on the 2 train who was asking for directions from the woman across from her.  The woman began to yell at the girl about not being from here and not being worth the time.  I should tell you that there was another woman who ended up giving the poor girl directions, before I forget.  The angry woman launched herself into a diatribe against all foreigners, the ruin of the country, terrorism, Obama's "failures", and 9/11.  I feel she must have lost somebody on September Eleventh, but the amount of pain and anger and violence was truly stunning.  I was stunned.  I looked around the car and I wasn't the only one.  Some people shifted uncomfortably, some looked down, some grimaced and continued to read there papers, while others still wheeled up the volume on their iPods.  No one was doing anything to stop it; neither was I.  I felt as if I should speak up; speak out against it, but I was a dumbstruck mute.  I felt shame as I looked around the car and found the eyes of other people who seemed to be personally wounded by the angry woman's xenophobic onslaught.  I so desperately wanted to lash back out, but the train had stopped at 96th street, we both exited, her to the surface, me to the 1 train, and I was left thinking that perhaps it was better to remain mum.  After all, can one fight ingnorance with complementary volume?  Does the harmonious discord of clashing opinions do anything but resonate a greater fury?  What is the best way to change a heart?  Can it be done, or do old hatreds run too deep?  The questions from the whole experience was something that continued to beleaguer me for the rest of the day.

We continued on Larry's class from where we had left off on Saturday.  I learned that I may internalize too much, and that I don't let much out.  It's something I've become practiced at, but it troubles me that I may be so shielded to others, even the people I consider myself comfortable with, that I may be coming off as aloof and unappreciative of the relationships that I share with them.  We concluded with the reading of the ten words written about or life-defining experience.  The person who had the experience simply stood and breathed in front of the class while the partner read the words from behind everyone.  I tried my best to take care of Jeena, as she did with me.  My experience is more a statement of facts to me now than an occurrence.  I thought that the fact that I feel little over the matter was a part of the healing process, but in light of everything that has been examined in myself over these last few weeks, I questioned myself today the possibility that perhaps I have shielded myself from myself as well, and what that means.  I suppose the only thing to do is to continue to examine and explore and try harder and better tomorrow to be better; more genuine; more honest to myself and the people around me.

"There is work in the world, man, and it is not by hiding behind stone walls that we shall do it."

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Bro-in', and bro-in', and bro-in' it UP!

-R

DeNoble. (Imagi-ninja)

Today was a stressful day.  For quite a while this afternoon, I was fretting having to come home and write about it because I really didn't want to relive it for you in front of my computer screen.  Much of what I was planning on revolved around the idea of teaching and terror as a tool to accomplish that goal...  I'll leave it at that.

I hadn't slept much last night.  This is an admission: I may have done a little too much blogging (re:journaling) last night.  There.  I said it.  After class today my sole purpose in life was to get home as fast humanly and MTA-ingly possible and enact Operation: Nap Time (which was a resounding success), but I found myself falling in to my usual pattern of engaging in a little verbal horseplay on the way to fetch things out of my locker.  I ended up in a conversation with Ms. Toni Ann DeNoble.  She's an actor in my class, and she's spectacular.

On a quick tangent:  I did the exercise in Larry's class that I had posted about earlier this week with Toni Ann and made a comment to her about having three fully-grown imaginations.  Seriously, the woman in imagining on planes of existence that only three-year-olds can fully harness, such is the power of her imagination.  It's a flabbergasting thing to see.  It's a little like being a ninja in ninja school and watching one of your fellow student-ninjas ninja-sword fight with her feet... and win.  It's ninja-impressive.

Back to the conversation: we had gotten involved in a conversation about the concept of age and what it means to people.  I found that she's of  like mind with me, where it becomes an annoyance to be constantly asked, "How old are you?"

I, for my part, have a bit of fun with this, and generally don't share right away with people my true count of sun-revolutions because, to me, it becomes an instant label to be confined in.  In my life, it's almost always one of the first questions asked when meeting some one.  It's like being sorted for future reference.  Ideas are formed and my personality gets assigned weights based on measures of other people, rather than just being allowed to have someone learn about who I am the old-fashioned way.  It's almost like:

Name: Jim
Age: 34
Political: Conservative
Religion: Mormon
Marital: Married
Children: Yes
Job: Dentist
Education: College Graduate; Dental school
... and so on and so forth

And, yes, these things come up; and, yes, they do define us, but there can be certain judgements that arise when certain other factors don't add up to a person's age.  There's an assessment based on someone else's standards, like when you hear that there's a woman who's thirty-six that's never been married/no kids and is a manager at a watch store in the mall in the town she grew up in.  You might think to yourself, "What's wrong with her?  She should be doing a lot better for herself at thirty-six."  I find that it's usually people in their fifties and people younger than their early twenties that tend (to me, at least) to assign so much significance to this number.  The 50+ like to remind me about how I'm not married (because that's a fail, right) and how "much more" they had accomplished by the time they were my age.  By people not old enough to drink in bars, I'm, "Old-as-shit, dude.", before I get assaulted with a litany of things that this person is going to do to be in a much better place when they reach my age.

This was essentially the nature of the conversation, and how this one little piece of information can so quickly define you in the eyes of others.  It's such an inconsequential thing.  It's nothing to be ashamed of, and yet it becomes the heavily-guarded secret by someone like myself, and as I discovered, Toni Ann, because you want people to know who you are and what you're about before offer them a little nugget of information that can help them make a snap decision.  It's like a way of respecting yourself... maybe.  Besides, isn't it much more exciting what you can learn about a person when you don't ask the expected questions?  Anyway, that's the philosophy behind it, and one that we both, I found, share.  I was so rapt in our chat, that I opted to take the train home (which adds an extra 20 minutes on to my commute to Astoria from the Upper West Side, just so I could squeeze in about ten extra minutes of brilliant conversation with her.  It was good.

I had discovered myself thinking while listening to Zarif today in Andrei's class that I really do enjoy the faces of the people who I get to share these next three years with.  I mean, they have some really excellent, look-worthy faces; and thanks to these great little accidental moments with Toni Ann, I get to appreciate what goes on behind the faces that I'm coming to adore so much.

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To continue to honor Anika's demand for "More Photos!", here's a picture of some faces back from collaboration weekend.  Tonia Ann, sadly, whom this post has been titled for is not present, but you can see for yourself some of the look-worthy faces that I mentioned earlier.  Aren't they a good-looking group!?!?  Also, this should please Sheyenne who constantly reminds me that I don't give her the attention she deserves.

"I hope that posterity will judge me kindly, not only as to the things which I have explained, but also to those which I have intentionally omitted so as to leave to others the pleasure of discovery."
- Rene Descartes 


Doo zee Fool!


-R

Touché.

We had this really interesting exercise in Larry Singer's class this morning.  Last monday we were instructed to think about a room that we had not been in for at least seven years.  That was our homework, to think about a room; nothing more.  I had chosen the living room of the house that I grew up in back on Carrwood Street in the suburbs of Sacramento.  It's been about 12 years since I've been there, but I figured that since I had spent a good amount of time in there, and it had he'd some pretty amazing memories of some good family times that it would be a fairly easy room to talk about.  I hadn't put much thought in to the room over the week (which I can't really feel bad about, because that, too, was a part of the assignment).

The exercise was essentially this.  We were to wander the studio space with five other people (in our own exclusive worlds) and examine the rooms as we remembered them.  If you're curious, yes, there was some mime involved.  What I discovered was that though I could remember the layout of the room (where furniture was placed, entrances and windows, that sort of thing) I couldn't remember the finer details of the room: where pictures hung and what they were, what knick-knacks were on the shelves, generally smaller items.  As I was exploring this vaguely remembered room from my past something clicked in, I remembered the feel, the texture of the love seat; and then the wall; the grating of the central heater; the feel of the kitten-destroyed spines of shelves of LPs; the feel of the lacquer on the record player's wooden exterior; the roughness of the short-shag carpet; the feel of the crank as I opened the window and the sound that it made.  As all of these things were occurring to me the room suddenly came into a very sharp focus.  I could clearly remember everything about this room that I haven't though about since I had last set foot in it circa 1999.  It was like a gate was opened in my mind and there was a deluge of sense-filled memories of this place of my childhood.  It was fantastic.  Other things became more clear to me; sounds and smells became accessible to me, I was looking at an entertainment center and something would knock and a new time that should have already been there would pop in to existence.

I learned today that the sense of touch holds for me far more information than my sense of vision.  Things started to make sense in the sense that I have never considered myself to be a visual thinker.  I've often had conversations with people where someone will bring up a strange or gross topic and someone else would say something like, "Dude! C'mon, I don't want to picture that!"

I can picture things, but I've always been more interested in the weight of the sound or the specificity of the word... the feel of it as I slowly roll it around in my mouth than the image it evokes.  The image was always an after-thought.  I've always figured that kinesthetic learning was one of the easiest ways to take something in, though I never really said to myself, "No, I can't learn it that way, I have to get my hands on it."  Something else sprang to my mind as I was working over this rather epiphanic realization.  I rarely allow others to touch me.  I almost hate, hate, hate being touched.  The more comfortable I am with someone, the more I relax in to it, but I really feel harried when someone makes contact with me unexpectedly... I guess it's mostly people I consider to be strangers, but if I learn and experience more through the sense of touch, what a great deal of experience I must be missing out on by not allowing that information from a person to pass in to me.

Something to think on, I suppose.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

-R