I want to thank Roy for suggesting just the right name for the little Christmas card battery that earned his soul by playing on for weeks after being thrown in the trash. Etude. For warbling songs in the dark to the mice.
Etude. [French étude, from Old French estudie, study.] A short composition for a solo instrument featuring a point of technique but performed because of its artistic merit.
Etude. Like Mike the Headless Chicken who slept with his phantom head tucked under his wing until he died, six months after he was beheaded.
Naturally, we here at the Invisible Theatre support the writer's strike. Clearly, They are right and The Man is wrong. Writers deserve fair pay for their work. It's that simple. Otherwise I don't much care about what happens in TV land. Don't even have a set in the house. I watch Colbert and Stewart online. But yesterday when writers from the Colbert Report requested responses to their video Sorry, Internet, we were only to happy to oblige. The troope got together and decided that our decidedly not cuddly or adorable producer T. Strum, formerly known as The Shipping Squirrel, should do the honors so, after homage to the Muse, he threw down the pen. No more Bird Park videos until this thing is settled! Sorry, Internet.
It's cloudy today and the scene in the Bird Park is completely different than it was yesterday when the Buddha Bird was the first to arrive. This morning the magpies made it here first, around 7:30, which is a bit late for them but it's cloudy. They didn't stay long enough to eat though. A couple of them got into a knock down roll in the dirt fist fight, or I guess I should say claw fight or claw, wing and beak fight. It was brutal. They made such a fuss they scared themselves off and everybody else when with them. Dummies. The lone magpie who comes about 8, after they are gone, will be happy for that. More goodies for him. I'm pretty sure he used to be the early bird, until the gang started tagging along. Hard to cover your tracks in the air. Now he comes back after the boobs takes off and I make a point of having a bit of birdie brunch waiting.
And what's up with pigeons? They must have radar eyes. I tucked some chicken scratch away in Old Guy Hills for the quail but the pigeons were all over it this morning, with the quail perched on the fence just watching them. Now I have to cut everybody off for a while, until the pigeons go back to their regular routine of stopping by for a cold tub and the few sunflower seeds the finches drop beneath the feeder. Ah the drama.
Happy Halloween. I strung lights last night. Looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself. The stage hogs at the Invisible Theatre, headed up by Uncle Monkey and Rat Woman of course, are agitated because I brought in outside talent to be the greeter this evening. Now everybody is miffed. They consider Halloween their gig, exclusively. It's not in their contract but tell them that. I hope they don't decide to pull some Halloween tricks on me.
I think Uncle Monkey is cutting some back stage deal with Rat Woman to be artistic director around here. I don't know what she has to say about things. I think that damn cape has gone to her head.
Okay, here is my internet musical debut. I recorded it this morning; another step in my ongoing efforts to rise above crippling shyness, soul crushing isolation, face the machine, and just be myself. Don't ask me why.
This is an improvisation. The melody is simple-minded and fumbled out and the video itself is jumpy. I should be ashamed of myself but apparently not enough. So here it is, for your pleasure, 100 seconds of crude.
That is the sound of one hand not typing but I'm not complaining for one day after surgery. Hell, I used to know a poet in Santa Cruz who typed all his books with the one finger method. Anyway, yesterday I wandered down some pretty dark paths. For instance in pre-op, while the lab tech blew a couple of veins trying to set the I.V., it occurred to me that the glare of the oblong overhead light I was staring at is the last thing some people see just before dying and lying on the hard cold surgery gurney as I began swirling around the event horizon of my failing mind, I was overwhelmed with sadness thinking about all the lab animals who watch in horror as heartless researchers do terrible things to them, all without pain relief, and after surgery I briefly understood what it must be like to outlive your world and await death among indifferent strangers.
Today, swollen as it is, it's still wonderfulhaving the pressure off my middle and ring fingers (ulner and median nerves) and the carpal tunnel repaired. If it weren't for the cast, I'd probably be able to flip the bird from a fist, a talent all but lost to me before yesterday. But in my brief absence I fear Uncle Monkey has been up to more shady business.
Puppets are like birds, very camera shy, especially when you sneak up on them.
The troupe here at the Invisible Theatre are actors but even they can get touchy when caught off guard. I only managed to get a couple of photos before they all scampered behind the proscenium and pulled the curtains.
Turns out Rat Woman was reading from an old five year diary that belonged to my mother (R). It covers the time when she was first dating my father and goes a couple of years after their marriage. I wonder what else Rat Woman has been getting into?
September 11, 1940
"To C.B.* after work with Peach & Chuck. Andy met us & to Jennings awhile. The Draft Bill was passed. Wonder what's to be."
* Candy Bar - a favorite tavern where my parents and their friends spent A LOT OF TIME.
I'm still in Portland and on one of the NW's more perfect June days. Or at least the sky was blue this morning. I see now, out through the cafe window, that a fine haze of clouds has formed but the street is still sunny. I'll take it. It's nice to be in the city. Actually, according to Find Your Spot, Portland is one of the top 5 most compatible places for me to live and, other than the weather, I have to agree. Plus, Edison my sweetheart and favorite Golden Retriever in the world, is feeling good today in spite of his cancer, I've helped out some with my daughter's upcoming wedding and it's sunny so I call that good. Of course, I know back that back home the Bird Park has wound down by now, making for a less than perfect week for a bunch-o-birds, but I'll be back tomorrow and wind it up again.
The second day I was here, I made a new friend ...a rat ... a friend of a friend I guess you could say, as it was Someone from JudyBlueSky who liberated this rat from the rack at the coffee shop. Unthinkingly, you might take her for a puppet but I assure you that you'd be gravely mistaken. She is an actor and newest member of Invisible Theatre. I'm a bit concerned that the Shipping Squirrel, the troupe's resident Bad Ass, might not be very friendly at first, but he's just rude. Under all the huff and blow, he's a marshmallow but don't quote me on that. I'll deny it.
My daughter sent me this great card for Mother's Day, which was yesterday. I hope it was a lovely day all around. Anyway, her card got me to thinking. However loving and forgiving our children may be some of us are too neurotic, vain, and self-centered to meet the standard of the Good Mother. It is embarrassing for both the children and us, the bad mothers, to go through the motions of Mother's Day, knowing that the honors are not exactly meant or deserved. Therefore, with an end to restoring integrity all around, I hereby declare that, henceforth, the second Monday of May will be known as Bad Mother's Day. From now on this is our day, we Bad Mothers, to do with as we please. And for good measure, because enough is never enough, I threw in the rights and privileges of Blue Monday[¹] , such as calling in sick and sighing a lot.
Naturally, many good children of bad mothers will not want to send their bad mothers Bad Mother's Day cards, irregardless of what a crap head she is. Not to worry. If you don't send one, it will just go to prove how terribly unappreciated we are. All the more reason for The DAY.
With the help of the troupe here at the Invisible Theatre, I threw together this little video to launch the holiday. In keeping with the theme, it's a variation of the old saying, "the hand that rocks the cradle" merged with the idea that, indeed, "it is never too late." I don't want any flack over the fact that a man does the lyrics. It's about time one of them kicks in. If you'd had a husband like this, you'd have been a bad mother too.
The quality of this video is pretty bad but, hell, what can you expect on Bad Mother's Day? Like I tell my kids, I tired. Anyway, the sound track is good, at least I think so and that's what matters. So sit back and enjoy William Shatner doing "That's Me Trying" from his never a hit album, "Has Been".
What? So you think something as important as Bad Mother's Day doesn't deserve footnotes?
[¹] The much ridiculed work of Cliff Arnall, former part-time tutor at Cardiff University explains a lot. Cardiff University distanced themselves from Arnall, but I stand by his efforts to render in mathematical terms such important concepts as Blue Monday.
Based on Cliff's work, I got my little brother (who actually is a scientist) to whip up a formula for Blue Monday Bad Mother's Day. I call it the BMBMD Effect.
... where weather (W) PLUS debt (D) MINUS ability to pay (d) MULTIPLIED BY THE time since her birthday (T), the combined time of all previous Bad Mother's Days (T¹) and the time since blowing her latest New Year’s resolutions (Q) DIVIDED BY Mommie's massive need to be right (M) MULTIPLIED BY her never ending need for appreciation (Na) EQUALS a very bad Blue Monday Bad Mother's Day.
So be a good kid and do something nice for your mother or not. Hop to it.
The Invisible Theatre has new digs. They moved from a shelf onto the new table. It is a tiny island at this point but, with a little luck, will continue to develop. Everyone here is quite excited about it.
Monsieur La Chance and Lucky Pierre have been backstage all afternoon gossiping and watching the goings on. They are quite pleased with these latest developments. All in all, slow as it's been, my office is finally beginning to shape up.
And the rain finally came, days late, but last night it rained the whole night through.
Thyth kept a close eye on Madame Twee when she got her hair done the other day. It was the first step of a hair transplant procedure. Thyth was pretty concerned at first but the session ended well.
I am very impressed with Roy's decision to post every day this year. Never mind he's been under the weather and already missed a day. That just makes him human, for which I am grateful. I am inspired by his resolve. It's a good way to insure that one writes every day so I secretly decided to try doing it myself but, after switching to one of Blogger's new templates this morning and fiddling with it all day, I decided to abandon the goal. This is the best I can do at this late hour, and once the bloom of the new year fades, I know it won't get any better. Once again I resort to photos to fluff things up. She hasn't revealed her name yet but Wolfie recognized her the minute she arrived, and has been at her side ever since. As you can see, he's very protective of her so I've been leaving them to themselves. Seems they have some catching up to do.
A couple of friends and I had a New Year/Winter Solstice, vegetarian feast, mask making, I Ching party on the 1st. Naturally, I took a bunch of photos and videos. The masks aren't painted yet but here is a video of Susan wearing hers, playing around with homegrown mudras and a set of japa mala. Happy New Year!
One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. I've written it before on countless scraps of paper. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. It is composed of a seemingly endless succession of beginnings. The original order of the words has been lost so I rely on you to supply the details. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. The original has been lost but I promise to stay true to its drift. That is not a matter of memory. It is a matter of being. One world at, one word at a time. Forgive me. The original version of this story does not exist. One word, one sentence at a time, this is its drift. This is the drift. The notes are scattered. No. Not scattered. The notes were never collected. Jotted. Scribbled. On scraps, in notebooks, on flaps. They have never been collected. They have seldom been re-read. Or read. The words, disjointed, have been set down and abandon. No, not abandon. There is much thinking between them, the phrases, the paragraph and elimination of words. And ideas. "Why?" I am telling a story. Build the house. Paint it later. And later still introduce the particulars. Each letter reverberates, twists but... if morning brings a promise it is a simple thread strung between opposites requiring a wire dance in thin air...
A new actor joined the cast here at the Language Barrier's Invisible Theatre over the holiday weekend. She was living up in Virginia City when I spotted these fellows through an open door off the boardwalk. That's her just right of center, between the white lamb and the golden dancer; the one with the long, gray hair.
Things are pretty mellow around here right now. After his stunning Halloween performance last night Lucky Pete is basking in the whole troupe's admiration. In fact he has been hanging out with Monsieur La Chance all day, who has taken him under his wing and been trying to convince him to give up, as he says, that bastard version of his fine French name. It is his opinion, of course, that form is everything but we shall see. Lucky Pete, or Pierre as the case may be, is a proud fellow even in a clown suit and obviously not one to be controlled by other people's or cat's opinions.
As for me, I wrote 2955 words on this, the first day of NaNoWriMo. PURE CRAP! TERRIBLE STUFF! I'd rather throw myself off a cliff and into the thrashing sea than let anyone read it but hey, it's all about the word count. When I was done my head felt like a blob of sour, warm meat. Well that's it from this outpost border crossing. Now I'm off to Otherland. G'night.
