North Avenue Lounge: Synchronicity, The Walking Dead & The Holidays

This past Monday's episode of North Avenue Lounge with The Walking Dead's Daniel Thomas May & Synchronicity Theatre's Rachel May. It is an intimate conversation about theatre, film, television, audio books, creative coupling, and cyber-stalking.

If you've only got a few minutes, on "One More Thing", I talk about holiday traditions, melancholia, nostalgia, and how art can get us through.

Happy Holidays!

North Avenue Lounge: Activism in Georgia

On Monday, November 10, I did an episode of North Avenue Lounge about Activism in Georgia where I interviewed two great women leaders here in Atlanta ~ Becky Rafter of Georgia WAND and Xochitl Brevera of the Racial Justice Action Center.

At the time, the episode felt timely because we had just finished up the election. It feels especially timely now as we work through the wake of the Ferguson announcement.

I mention Ferguson in my "One More Thing" monologue at the end.  Thought you might appreciate and maybe even be inspired to your own brands of action around the world.

Also, I've been meditating on this song a lot today.

Wishing you peace through harmony (another great song by Elise Witt),
Shannon

Copy of Spring

This is a story that I wrote for a fantastic writing class I'm taking with Suzanne Mozes. We had the challenge to write a short story in less than 1200 words.

Copy of Spring

Margaret sat on the park bench like she did most nice days at lunchtime.  She tried to focus on the natural beauty of the park, not on all the encroaching humanity.  The fountain, making a lovely, rustling sound like a waterfall, not the sound of the kid’s music blasting nearby.  The early spring blossoms, not the used condom wrapper at her foot.  She took another bite of her neatly wrapped tuna salad with tomato sandwich, chewed slowly, methodically.

She thought about the boy who used to call her Maggie, the only person who ever caller her that. A young man she’d loved quite a lot, even if it only lasted for a single spring season.  He insisted on calling her Maggie; she told him that was silly.  Secretly she loved him all the more for it.  She’d had her first kiss with him on a bench quite like this one, which was why she liked to return here.

That was long ago.

After he’d left, she would sit on the bench late at night, trying to recapture the feeling of that first kiss, crying, willing him to come back.  She’d whisper into the wind, “I miss you so much I ache”, in hopes that the wind would carry her words to wherever he was.  He never returned.

All decades ago, and now she simply came here out of habit.  A daily routine.

She finished her sandwich, wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin she’d brought along and tucked all of her items back into the small lunch bag she carried to work each day.

It was an early Chicago spring day.  Though the wind still had a bite, the sun’s rays cut through in such a way that made her want to sit just a bit longer.  She pulled her scarf away from her neck just a bit.  She knew that she only had about another five minutes before her pale skin would start to burn, but she was beyond caring about wrinkles at this point.

Finally, after bathing in the light for just a few more precious moments, she stretched her arms as big and wide as her cranky bones would let her and stood to head back to the museum.

She’d become a docent at the Art Institute because of her love of great art. Margaret had a failed early attempt at a painting career, so her job fulfilled her desire to stay connected with the art world, the textures, the colors, the storied past.  Despite all of the thousands of noisy, snotty, handsy children, and the equally noisy, handsy foreign tourists, she’d managed mostly still to love her job and always the paintings.  

The hardest part was the art students.  Watching them sit for hours, as she’d once sat, making sketches of other people’s great art.  Seeing the light and hopefulness in their eyes, the earnestness.  Margaret wasn’t sure what was harder--knowing how many of them would burn out, ending up bitter computer programmers and baristas or resenting the ones who might actually find success.

As she walked into the Institute, she said goodbye to the sunlight and felt her whole world dim, readjust.  While depositing her things in the break room, she realized that a pop song the kid in the park had abused her with was now stuck in her head. Something about making your booty shake.  Indeed.  But then, a little, nearly imperceptible smile came across her lips at the thought.

The exhibit they had right now was one of her favorite artists, particularly his piece about spring.  It was a total pleasure to stand quietly in a corner and gaze at the work, protect it from the masses, and share with people what she knew.  Except the art kids and their drawings.  Making their copies of spring.

An invitation from a co-worker earlier in the day played through her head uneasily as she settled in for the afternoon.  People were gathering for drinks after closing to celebrate a security guard’s birthday.  Her feet ached already, and she really hated her colleagues.  Besides, drinking more than one glass of red wine at night disrupted her sleep.  She’d rather be home in time for Jeopardy! and a good cup of tea.

Margaret started counting the tiles on the floor. The cold, hard, grey ceramic tiles that made her feet hurt. As her gaze wandered over toward the bench in the middle of the room, she noticed an abandoned backpack tucked underneath.  

She walked over to the bag and picked it up, holding it in her arms for a long time, like it was a baby, or a precious thing.  She realized she was trying to decide whether to open it up or just take it to the front desk.

Her thoughts turned to a million possibilities, perhaps adventures, that could be inside.  Money from a bank robbery. A bomb. The lost, final novel of an obscure writer.   

She was fairly certain the satchel belonged to one of the art students, but her hand stayed on the zipper, toying with the little, black fabric fob that hung off the end.  

Footsteps echoed on the tile.  Someone laughed in the other room.  The second hand on her watch ticked loudly in the spaces in between.

****

Shannon M. Turner

October 2014

North Avenue Lounge: Gaming

My 8/18/14 episode of the North Avenue Lounge featured Dave Leach, 6-time Jeopardy champion / founder of Well Played Board Game Company, and Kevin Stallard, director of the DragonCon Video Game track.

If you want to get your geek on, like gaming, want to delve into the debate of Geek culture vs. pop culture, or if you just want to hear four people laughing a lot, click here.

North Avenue Lounge: Gun Violence Prevention

Dear Friends and Fams,

I have another episode of North Avenue Lounge to share.  The interview took place on Monday, July 7, 2014 with three members of Georgia Gun Sense.  I'm really proud of this one.  It took a lot of work to put together, and I'm sure you remember from my life story why the topic of gun violence prevention is an important one to me.

As I've been doing lately, there was a monologue at the end under the title "One More Thing."  You can listen to it here. [Trauma warning ~ if you were there at Virginia Tech when the shootings happened, that is partially the topic of the monologue.]

Hope you're all well in your respective corners of the world.

Love,
Shannon

North Avenue Lounge: Food Justice and Sustainability

Hey, Friends and Fams,

There've been several episodes of the North Avenue Lounge since I last posted, covering topics such as drag queens in Atlanta, visual artists of color, improv comedy, and playwrights.  Today's episode was about Community Farmers Markets and the food justice movement.  It was a very interesting topic to explore for sure.

I can't ask you to go back and listen to hours of old radio (you've got lives to lead), but I thought you might find it interesting that I've started doing a new closing segment at the end of each episode.  I've been experimenting and have finally taken to calling these bits, "One Last Thing."  Here's today's segment under the new name.  It contains a special shoutout to my dad, to Blacksburg (especially the YMCA Community Garden and Emily Stewart, may she rest in peace), and my friend, Eleanor.  Hope you like it!

As always, would love to use this as an invitation to hear from you in your respective garden patches of the world.

Cheers,
Shannon ~*

Gabby, Flabby, and Crabby

This is the story of Gabby, Flabby, and Crabby.

Gabby, Flabby and Crabby were the best of friends.  They went out together everywhere.  They knew each others’ secrets.  It was almost as if they were the same person sometimes.
Except they were all so very different.  They had distinctively different ways of moving through and dealing with the world.

Gabby was embarrassing at parties.  She’d get soooooo loud and boisterous, spouting half-truths, misquoting headlines from publications she really didn’t read.  The other two would just cringe when she had the least little bit to drink.  Sometimes, they would hide under tables or even try to sneak out the door without her, but try as they might, they couldn’t seem to be anywhere Gabby was not.  The biggest problem with Gabby was that, when she got cranked up, Flabby would start acting up too.

See, Flabby had a bit of an eating problem.  She just couldn’t help herself.  She felt so lonely sometimes.  When Gabby was embarrassing the group, Flabby would hide in the corner and start stuffing her little ol’ face.  She hated herself for it but couldn’t stop.

Then, whenever swimsuit season came around, all three of the girls would go to the store to look for a new suit together.  That’s when Flabby would most regret her past behavior.  She would just pitch herself down on the floor of the dressing room like a two-year-old and cry.  Or she would jump up and down and scream.  The other two would yell, “Down, Flabby, down!”

And then, heaven help us, there was Crabby.  She was the worst of them all.  Crabby just couldn’t stand the other two.  Really, it was kind of ridiculous that she was stuck with these two lamebrains, but try as she might, she couldn’t seem to shake them.

And they couldn’t stand her either.  Gabby might make herself happy by being loud and boisterous, entertaining her friends with funny stories.  Flabby, as we’ve established, would find happiness/misery at the bottom of a potato chip bowl.  But Crabby?  She was never happy.

Crabby would sit in the corner of just about any place and pout her pretty little head off.  Crabby could find the worst in any situation.  Everyone hated to see Crabby coming.  Pretty day outside?  Crabby brought up allergies and sunscreen.  New job with awesome benefits?  Crabby would grumble about early onset Alzheimer's.  Crabby’s condition was contagious.  She made Gabby so depressed that all she could do was try to talk to everybody about the most nonsensical stuff.  And poor Flabby of course would just overdose on chocolate every chance she got.

So, whatever happened to Gabby, Flabby, and Crabby, you ask?

Ending #1
Why, nothing!  They’re everywhere you look.  Their story goes on and on and on…

Ending #2
One day, Flabby decided that just for once she was going to skip the party and go for a walk instead.  Crabby mocked her, tried to shame her back into being a part of the group.  “What, are you going to lead a life of rigor now? Are you meant for the abbey?”  Flabby just ignored her, and went on her way.

Inspired, Gabby kept quiet for once, and thought, “Hey, a walk.  By myself?  That idea’s not too shabby!  Maybe I’ll gather my thoughts for once before I speak out of turn.”  And with that, she walked out the door.

Crabby just sat there and harumphed, but then...after a while, realized she felt a little better without those two bozos around.  Maybe she’d do something to make herself happy, rather than try and drag everyone else down.  She’d always liked cats.  Maybe a tabby!

Ending #3
Gabby found her voice and the perfect venue for her outgoing personality through a local storytelling group.  Seeing Gabby's happiness and not being "set off so much" by her behavior, Flabby found yoga, cycling and the farmers market and is no longer yelled at in the dressing room. Crabby, seeing them both happy, defected to North Korea where her unhappiness is shared by all and she never bothered Gabby or Flabby again.

[ending submitted by Becky Alley McLaughlin]

Ending #4
Crabby kicked Gabby & Flabby to the curb, and continued to enjoy her bad mood with no interference. She considered running for small-town office since she was already grumpy.

Gabby found a job as a Fox News reporter and enjoyed her public's adulation.

Flabby got a part-time job as a greeter at Walmart where she could buy snacks & elastic-waist sweat pants at a discount.

Every Friday they would meet for 2-for-1 Ladies Night drinks at Appleby's and close the place down.

And they all lived thereafter.

[submitted by Kathie deNobriga]

Ending #5
The girls decided to start a rock and roll band called The Cabbies.  It was the only thing to do really.  They took their show on the road.  Gabby was clearly the lead vocals, ever the not-so-gracious forward face.  But, she had great pipes. Also, she wasn’t bad on the guitar.  It was surprising that she could do anything well, but flap her jaws, but it turned out she had a great sense of rhythm and harmony.

Flabby held down the bass.  We don’t know why.  It just makes sense.

And Crabby found herself to be very happy banging on a drum all day.  So happy, in fact, that over time, she frankly became less crabby.

In turn, having less negativity and more music in the group led Flabby to curb her appetite, even dance about here and there, slowly slimming down.  (She kept her beautiful, little round belly and generous thighs, though!)  All this led Gabby to ponder her life’s direction and even to share the spotlight with the others when they felt so inclined.

They lived happily ever after.

The Atlanta Weather Report

For all of you not in Atlanta, here's my weather report.

New North Avenue Lounge Episodes

Hey, friends and fams.

I've done a couple more episodes of The North Avenue Lounge since the last time I let you know that.  These days, I've been doing my show live, rather than recording it beforehand and then airing an edited version.  It's a very scary and alive feeling, but seems to be working out for the most part.

Today's episode with Carlton Mackey and Roni Nicole Henderson talked about art, creativity, spirituality, and race in Atlanta, including whether Black History Month is still culturally relevant and whether there's segregation or self-segregation in the Atlanta arts community.

You can read more about Carlton Mackey's projects at 50ShadesofBlack.com and TypicalAmericanFamilies.com.

Three weeks ago, I did an episode about storytelling, in which I interviewed Anthony Vinson and Shannon McNeal in anticipation of the Peach State Storytelling Festival.  We talked about the differences between reality storytelling and traditional storytelling, as well as Anthony and Shannon's lives and careers.

Snow Bound & Stir Crazy

I listened recently as some Slate podcast pundits hypothesized that depression is the ailment of people who are obsessed with the past, while anxiety is for those who can't stop thinking about the future.  It was, admittedly, too binary a proposal, even for them.

I know it can't possibly be true for me; I have a great deal of anxiety about my past.  What if my past wasn't good enough?  What if memories of my youth, the stories that I'll be telling when I'm old, just won't stack up.  I have this constant dread that I spent most of college as the designated driver to other people's wild abandon.  What if I'm already so far behind on adventure I will never catch up?

I've always been a person who dwells more on the past than on the future.  I remember the first time I realized this, and when I did it hit me visc-ehr-a-lee.  I was laying in bed with my mom on a lazy Saturday afternoon in late winter.  We were both half dozing, half watching television.  Into the near darkness of early dusk she spoke, "Do you realize where we'll be this time next week?  We'll be on vacation!" 

I was startled because I had been lying there, reminiscing about where I'd been exactly one week prior to that moment.  I think I'd been getting ready for some dance or some nonsense of unrequited teenage love was in the process of playing out, which is why re-living it, re-telling it to myself in my head, seemed very important at the time.

But it really struck me that my mom was thinking about the future at the same time that I was living in the past.  Ever since then, this little tendency has stuck with me, plagued me at times.  I'm constantly thinking about what I was doing this time last week, this time last year, especially when significant events come 'round.

Here's a metaphor for ya ~ a few Christmases back, my grandmother gave me a "hope chest."  You know this old tradition?  You give a single gal a piece of furniture, and she's supposed to fill it up with things that represent her future marriage.  You know what I put in it?  Memorabilia...scrap books, photo albums, little mementos and tokens from the past.  

At times, I try to re-frame all this away from judgment about what this means about me as a person, and I think to myself, well, at least this makes me a better storyteller, right?  The ability to recall things in the past with great detail?  It must have some greater utilitarian purpose!

I don't know, though.  Perhaps.  I sure would like to get around to a place where I could enjoy the present moment while it's happening more often.  And even think about the future even.

Yesterday, I went out for a walk as the snow was falling, and the city of Atlanta was beginning its long, slow descent into chaos.  For me, it was the proverbial walk down memory lane.  I kept thinking about my college years.  It snowed a lot in Virginia during those years seems like.  I kept having flashes of sense memories about ~ 

...the time I fell down the stairs on the first day of classes in January, and everyone thought I had died because the EMT guys covered my head with a sheet when they carried me outside, but really it was just because it was snowing and icing in my face.  

...the time we did "homeless for a night" and slept in boxes all over campus during an ice storm and watched Barbara Kingsolver, who was an artist in residence that year, fall in love with her current husband.  

...the time we tried to go to DC for a NOW rally but got snowed in along the way and ended up drinking ourselves blind at a friend's house and then having a huge, blowout fight.

There's something about snow that, in its extreme, brings on the extremes in humanity. It can both unite and isolate us.  It can inspire and depress.  People talk about how beautiful and clean everything looks when the blanket gently falls over the landscape, but digging out is an ugly, muddy assault to the senses.

The one thing about snow, though, especially for those of us who live in places where it happens rather rarely, is that it does bring up romantic notions of the past.  Misty dreams of popcorn and hot chocolate and fireplaces.  

Now that I live alone, though, all I can say is thank goodness for the internet.  If I hadn't had Facebook and online dating sites and Netflix, I'm not sure what I'd have done in the long hours over the last few days.  Read?!?!

I'm really looking forward to digging out - to everyone digging out - soon.  Another one of those stupid invitations to dwell in the past is right around the corner, and I can feel the maudlin mopey-ness tug down at the corners of my mouth, filling my ears with that prickly, cottony feeling, even as I stare out my window at frat boys playing soccer in the snow. 

The one thing I've learned, though, about how to overcome the cotton-filled, mouth-tugging feeling of January (whether it snows or not) is to get up and move, even if snow soccer isn't quite my panacea.  I may not completely escape it, but at least I'll move my way through it.  I'll blast the Rolling Stones and dance, hurdle, stair master, popcorn, and maybe a little bit walk-down-memory-lane my way through it.