Today the staff at MacDowell did a mid-day champagne toast. The deadline for summer residency applicants was today and they got over 1000 entries for 70 slots. It's a record for them and a new feat in their popularity. Jesus, it really has me questioning how I managed to get in here.

I am writing a poem called "The Mother Teresa of Pussy." I also wrote a three page monologue about how cats are better than men. I wonder if Aaron Copeland is turning in his grave.

I feel introspective but am not sure if anyone else would agree. Folks here have offered to look at my stuff and help structure it, but I'm feeling insecure like this baby isn't ready for her party yet.

I have nine days left to make brilliance shoot out in a stream of cat pee.

Labels: cat lady, MacDowell

I've edited another video in my process for you all to see.

Labels: cat lady, MacDowell, the pick up artist

I started writing a monologue about faking love, based on some facebook input to my question, "At what point do we fear the same human intimacy we want/crave? And, why will we settle for faked love?"

And next thing I know, I'm like cutting text and hitting the tab key all up in here and suddenly I had the first poem I've written in years.

I've been reading a lot of poetry here which I don't do too often. When I'm stuck on words I like reading them shilled down to their essence.

I am still pretty creatively constipated though. Right now, I'm at the place, where this script is now just labor. I know what needs to be in it. I just need to buckle in and go go go.

I'm not sure where my creative process is taking me. But it's taking me somewhere crazy introspective and this play has yet to get done already.

In the meantime, enjoy a rare dose of Walt Whitman Wongster!



WHEN THE MOTIONS WILL SUFFICE

Like buying a New York City umbrella during an unsuspected storm.
I didn’t have time to test it.
Just open it
above me, and have
faith it would work
until I made my way home.
(You were there and I was wet.)


We imagine doing this in the most imaginable honest way imagined but
our eyes still turn away as our arms stretch open for each other.
(This is how people get hit by cars. Because they don’t look where they’re going.)


I still hold with me
this last moment of you tangled here under four layers of bedsheets
that flipped their original order
during our earthquake.
Like a geologist got drunk then diagrammed the earth from its crust to core
from memory.
(sense of order so we too lost all when motioned like love in we were)
(order of sense lost like we were in love when we motioned too like)


I made my bed before you came by, as if I had always been a neat one.
With each pat and swipe, I erased
the previous guests like a hotel maid.
I stretched the sheets so tight it was as if my bed had never so much as been seen before.
I wanted us to leave
an imprint on this canvas together.
I wanted you to leave
feeling like we penned a masterpiece together.
I wanted you to leave
believing you were a wunderkind.
I wanted you to leave.
I didn’t want you
to leave.
(But rather than risk hating your writing, I just assume not read it.)


Say we are driving a rented BMW convertible on the freeway.
(Put it on the charge card. I will figure out how to pay it off later. )
My ponytail goes
undone and the split ends of my hair
scrape, whip, and stick to
my face. My contact lenses
go dry on my eyeballs.
I’ll blink until my eyes secrete natural tears
so I can see the road ahead without squinting.
(So my eyes don’t scratch themselves blind in the fury of speed.)
That’s why people love convertibles.
You grab that much more sky by convertible than by foot.
(Though, with the sky, you can’t take it with you. Plus, it grabs you.)
And, I will scream to you from the passenger seat how
this windy ride, where we cannot even hear
each other, where my palms press but cannot hold
those almost new black leather seats, where
you may hear me and then
forget sooner than I will, but
I will scream dry eyes, messy hair and all:

This is the best ride ever. The most fun I’ve had in my entire life.

Labels: MacDowell, Walt Whitman Wongster

Another video transmission from my first New Hampshire winter.

Labels: MacDowell

My Facebook friends may have noticed that here at MacDowell my FB updates have been super existential of late. This new CAT LADY play has me asking why we settle for faking love, what the meaning of life is, and where do we find the end of loneliness. I'm not sure how healthy it is for me to be exploring such heavy stuff for this long of time in total isolation in a cabin in New Hampshire, but thought I'd start sorting through some of this footage to organize my thoughts. I'm pretty proud of this edit done on the most basic of Final Cut skills.

Labels: cat lady, MacDowell, the pick up artist

Look at where I live for the next 3 weeks!

There's so much to tell you all. The food here is amazing. I had crepes with mushrooms and goat cheese this morning. And last night we had catfish. It's like eating every day at a restaurant where you don't even have to tip. Or pay.... This is insane. Who thought of this artist colony idea? It's brilliant.

Here are video blogs from the last two days....



I'm still trying to get the city buzz out of my head. And the writing is moving along, but not racing full speed like I'd like it to. I've spent a lot of time just watching DVDs of other theater shows and reading.



Last night's New Year's Eve celebration was fun. We had a "dance tour" party where artists could sign up to host everyone for one song (and dance) and would offer one drink. It was the first time I stepped into anyone's studio. We are so far apart from each other that we actually drove in cars from studio to studio. Mine was one of the last studios on the tour as evidenced by the clip below...



Last night instead of watching Dick Clark, they did a ball drop (balloons wrapped in mylar) from the 2nd floor.



It was so cute. It broke open and there were fortunes inside. Catia and Meghan in this picture are holding masks they made of the "MacDowells" who founded the colony and hosted us through the dance tour.



Here's the piano in my studio! Currently used as a glorified bookshelf.


If famous composers like Meredith Monk and Aaron Copeland made their masterpieces in this studio, surely I can churn out a show about cat pee.


This is Mr.T, the mangy cat that lives in the laundry room and is 16 years old and doesn't groom himself. I gave him a haircut yesterday. Snipped all the clusters off of him.


We keep our liquor apart by putting tags on them. So handy.

Labels: MacDowell

Here are the first glimpses of my private winter paradise. I'm trying to get used to things like... snow... or trying to use a fireplace. And all the static in my hair. And of couse... time time time!

Labels: MacDowell

It was getting late, and neither myself nor my father felt like going to Redwood City in pursuit of an old coat. So I'm cutting the tags off my purchases and I'm ready to look like a million bucks at MacDowell... Specifically... like 292 bucks.

And this is the end of JacketGate. For now at least....

I am so excited about MacDowell. I plan to go on walks and do weird meditative breathing and write and get fat eating gourmet food. And get a lot of writing in.

I learned a lot from two summers ago when I was in Florida. To not take on too much, not beat myself up for not getting as much work done. And to stay away from the internet... So we'll see how that goes!

Here's the video of where I'm going. It's so out of control quaint and perfect.

Labels: artist life, MacDowell