Well, hello there, fellow travelers.
I know it's been a very long time since I've made a post. Truth is, I got into a bit of a rut there for a while. Too much TV, not enough friends. Too much work, not enough walks. Too much reality, not enough generosity.
So, I've made a change of late that I'm hoping will manifest other kinds of change.
Beginning in early May, I started to transition out of working for Synchronicity and into a new job at Alternate ROOTS. For now, my work with ROOTS is just a five-month contract. I will primarily be coordinating their Annual Meeting, which takes place in August in Asheville. The AM is a gathering of about 175 artists and activists from all over the country, but primarily the South. I have been an active member of ROOTS since 2005, and I am so pleased to be coming onto the staff in this way.
After this contract is over, I'm strongly considering moving to Asheville. While there are many things that I've enjoyed about living in Atlanta, I'm not sure that this is the place for me for the long haul. I've had a hard time establishing a sense of community for myself here.
So that's the quick update. I am sorry for my radio silence, and I sure do hope to be in touch again more regularly. Fingers crossed that the amusing or thought-provoking adventures like I've regaled you with in the past start finding their way onto my path again soon.
Until then, I remain steadfastly yours...
Cheers,
Shannon
P.S. And before you ask, there's been NO internet dating in about a year. I lost the gumption. ;)
Friday, May 22, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
for posterity's sake
Here is the link to my performance in Blacksburg last April: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Yryp7R4a7M
Friday, January 30, 2009
NEA moves closer to extra $50 million in funding
NEA moves closer to extra $50 million in funding
Posted on Back Stage's blog, 1/29/09
(borrowed from "You've Cott Mail")
The House approved $50 million in additional funding for the NEA. The measure still has to pass in the Senate, but it's a good first step. The bad news is there are people out there like Brian Riedl of the Heritage Foundation -- you know, the people who brought you the Iraq war, at a cost of $10 billion a month -- who think this is a waste of money. "Government policies that make people and workers more productive will increase productivity," he told NPR this week. "But simply borrowing money out of the economy in order to transfer it to some artists doesn't increase the economy's productivity rate. It doesn't help workers create more goods and services, and it won't create economic growth." Actually, for every $1 of federal, state, and local government funding that the nonprofit arts community receives, it helps to generate $7 in tax revenue, according to a report from Americans for the Arts, which says the NEA [also] generates at least $7 in additional giving for each dollar it grants. This $50 million isn't a heedless giveaway to "some artists" (which we guess Riedl sees as self-indulgent, half-baked baristas reinterpreting Strindberg with finger puppets). It's an investment in proven winners who give back much more than they receive. And if Merrill Lynch, Bear Stearns, and Lehman Brothers were generating a 7:1 rate of return, we wouldn't be having this conversation.
Posted on Back Stage's blog, 1/29/09
(borrowed from "You've Cott Mail")
The House approved $50 million in additional funding for the NEA. The measure still has to pass in the Senate, but it's a good first step. The bad news is there are people out there like Brian Riedl of the Heritage Foundation -- you know, the people who brought you the Iraq war, at a cost of $10 billion a month -- who think this is a waste of money. "Government policies that make people and workers more productive will increase productivity," he told NPR this week. "But simply borrowing money out of the economy in order to transfer it to some artists doesn't increase the economy's productivity rate. It doesn't help workers create more goods and services, and it won't create economic growth." Actually, for every $1 of federal, state, and local government funding that the nonprofit arts community receives, it helps to generate $7 in tax revenue, according to a report from Americans for the Arts, which says the NEA [also] generates at least $7 in additional giving for each dollar it grants. This $50 million isn't a heedless giveaway to "some artists" (which we guess Riedl sees as self-indulgent, half-baked baristas reinterpreting Strindberg with finger puppets). It's an investment in proven winners who give back much more than they receive. And if Merrill Lynch, Bear Stearns, and Lehman Brothers were generating a 7:1 rate of return, we wouldn't be having this conversation.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
another ten lousy bucks
Hello, there blog friends! I hope you're all well and enjoying life in your respective nooks and crannies of the world. I know I did this before in the spring when we were in the nexus of fund raising for HERE, but some of you seemed to really enjoy the opportunity (not to mention the fact that I give money to your cause of choice when asked), so I'm doing it again. Please find below another Ten Lousy Bucks letter, and this time it's for my current employer [and life partner ;) ], Synchronicity Performance Group. We do really amazing work. You know that I wouldn't be working here if I didn't believe in it with all my passion. Read on...
December 5, 2008
Dear Friend,
Remember that old song from the Great Depression, "Buddy, can you spare a dime?" Well, this year, we're singing loud and strong..."Buddy, can you spare ten lousy bucks?"
"Excuse me?" you say. "You're crazy. Why should I give you my hard-earned ten dollars? Especially now?"
We'll tell you why. In fact, we'll give you ten great reasons:
Don't make us wait. Send us ten bucks today. We promise--it'll make you feel great. We thank you from the bottom of our pockets (and our hearts).
Shannon Turner
Development Director
P.S. Of course, if you're feeling generous and want a crazy-go-nuts tax deduction, MORE than 10 bucks would be nice as well. We have some lovely merchandise to offer for gifts of $100 and up.
December 5, 2008
Dear Friend,
Remember that old song from the Great Depression, "Buddy, can you spare a dime?" Well, this year, we're singing loud and strong..."Buddy, can you spare ten lousy bucks?"
"Excuse me?" you say. "You're crazy. Why should I give you my hard-earned ten dollars? Especially now?"
We'll tell you why. In fact, we'll give you ten great reasons:
- Right now, your money will be doubled. That's right, some of our visionary donors have stepped up and offered a dollar-for-dollar match up to $50,000! So every dollar (or $10) that you give us gets matched and goes further.
- The arts are key to stimulating the economy--and boy, we can all use a little stimulation right about now.
- We believe that art inspires conversation and compassion--and so we encourage community involvement in all that we do--from Playmaking for Girls to ice cream talkbacks after the show.
- Because, let's face it, your TV could probably use a break.
- Synchronicity makes you smarter. Really! The arts make us smarter. Studies show that children who participate in the arts have higher SAT scores and do better in school.
- Our Playmaking for Girls outreach program has been getting some serious attention for empowering girls in the juvenile justice system and in local Title I schools by helping them discover their own unique voices through theatre. That's worth at least ten bucks right there!
- Our Family Series creates exuberant, inspiring theatre for children and adults...and it beats the heck out of watching "Hannah Montana" again.
- Synchronicity supports women artists--from writers to actors to interns. Hey, women are half the population, and no one else in Atlanta is doing this important work!
- There's a good reason they call it "nonprofit." Without your support, we can't keep producing smart, gutsy, bold theatre.
- Did we mention that your donation will be doubled?
Don't make us wait. Send us ten bucks today. We promise--it'll make you feel great. We thank you from the bottom of our pockets (and our hearts).
Shannon Turner
Development Director
P.S. Of course, if you're feeling generous and want a crazy-go-nuts tax deduction, MORE than 10 bucks would be nice as well. We have some lovely merchandise to offer for gifts of $100 and up.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
things that are helpful to know
So, for like weeks I had been hearing about this awesome fundraiser for this organization that is affiliated with Alternate ROOTS (an organization that I've been a member of for a long time now). This other organization is called Project South, and they've come to the ROOTS Annual Meeting a few times, and I was happy to support their work. Additionally, the name of the fundraiser was "Sex, Wine, and Chocolate." How could you not want to go to something called that? I knew it was a joint affair with another organization called SPARK, but I had never heard of them, and my understanding was that the purpose was to raise money and awareness about domestic violence. The event was billed as an "evening of sensual pleasure for women." Ok, I'm thinking, you know, fun, lots of chocolate, perhaps a tiara will greet me at the door, maybe a few bawdy jokes here and there, all in good fun, blah, blah, blah...
It didn't seem like the kind of thing I wanted to go to alone, but I don't really have a lot of girlfriends my age in the area yet. Especially ones who are not married and doing the baby thing. So, I invited my 58-year-old Indian neighbor, Pushpa, and I was especially hoping that she would bring her daughter, who's close to my age and who I've been trying to strike up a friendship with. Pushpa's daughter ultimately backed out because she's a doctor and doing the baby thing, so we together, an unlikely pairing, donned some sassy wear and ventured out on a fresh, fall evening.
When we arrived, we discovered that the fundraiser was, in fact, to promote reproductive rights. Also something I very much want to support, but it was my first clue that the evening was going to have a different, um, flavor than I had originally imagined. Pushpa had showed me the extra check she'd brought along in hopes that there would be a silent auction so that she could buy presents for other people. As we were checking in, we discovered that there was no silent auction, but then we learned that instead there was a raffle.
We made our way on over to the raffle table and found an array of prizes that might be won, from baskets that included gas cards and candy on up to the grand prize, a ladies luxury package, including a cruise for 2 and sex toys!! Yikes... (I looked at Pushpa out of the corner of my eye and tried to see if she was taking this in.)
I tried to move us quickly away from that table and on over to the next where there was lots of literature about the two organizations. Available for pick-up at this table were little, plastic items that looked like those coin purses that you squeeze on both ends and then the long line opens up to expose your change. But the longer I looked at them, the more I realized that they were oddly round, whereas change purses are typically oblong. And that's when it dawned on me, that these were designed to double as a condom holder. Pushpa picked one up and thought aloud, "I could take this home to my grandson. He loves to play with this kind of stuff." I just looked back at her, wondering which way this would go. Then she threw it back down and said, "Naaaahhh." Whew...
Then, we shuffled into the next room and discovered in the dim lighting and flashing bulbs that "Prom Pictures" are being made. Once again, I started to grimace as I saw all the props that have been laid out to be utilized for pictures, including handcuffs, whips, dog collars, and whipped cream. At this point, I had to wonder how much of this my companion is picking up on. Is she taking it all in? Completely oblivious? She seemed to be enjoying herself at least partly, but I was growing increasinly uncomfortable with every new turn.
Thinking we must have reached the height of decadence, we emerged into a room full of women and men naked from the waist up getting body painted quite intricately. AAAAAAAHHHHHH. I shuffles us quickly on through there, unable to look Pushpa in the eyes and then, thank god, we found ourselves in the main room and at the bar. Unfortunately, we discovered that, despite calling the event "Sex, Wine, and Chocolate," our $20 tickets did not pay for a single drink ~ it was a cash bar. I was so annoyed. I really thought there would be at least one glass of wine in it for me!
There was, at least, copious amounts of chocolate.
And, low and behold, a beautiful half naked African-American man draped across back of the table.
It was just too much. I couldn't take it any more. Claiming that the music was too loud ~ which it was ~ I grabbed a few cookies & chocolates off of the table and asked Pushpa if she would like to go back outside with me. Bless her heart, the poor woman doesn't eat sweets and doesn't drink. Why did she even agree to come with me to this thing?
Anyway, we hung out in the lobby for a long time watching the many fabulous characters as they entered the festivities. One highlight for Pushpa, I could tell, was when we discovered that the check-in table had started distributing Obama buttons after we had come through. She was intending to make up for her lack of chocolate in schwag somehow, and this was a perfect substitute for her. She went back to the table thrice. She walked away with 8 total. Pinned them to herself, her program, and made sure I got one too. My purse now says "HOPE all over me."
We eventually ventured back into the ballroom ~ Pushpa with napkin pieces stuffed in her ears ~ and tried to take it in for a while longer. But it was just so not our scene together. Finally, I turned to her, and said, "You know, if we leave now, we'll make it home in time for the debate." I think she kind of hated to acknowledge it, but sometimes you just have to admit it's not going to get any better.
We stopped at Trader Joe's on the way home. She had never been there before, and I wanted to show her something at least a little more up her alley to my estimation. It still didn't seem to be the right thing.
As we drove home, I still wondered to myself why Pushpa had come with me. She started talking about all of the other things that we might do together ~ go to thrift shop, the movies, etc. And finally it dawned on me...I think it was to get out of the house and not babysit her grandson for a while. It didn't really matter what we did together. We were just hanging out.
And I think we had fun, even if we did get a little, um, over-stimulated, as it were.
It didn't seem like the kind of thing I wanted to go to alone, but I don't really have a lot of girlfriends my age in the area yet. Especially ones who are not married and doing the baby thing. So, I invited my 58-year-old Indian neighbor, Pushpa, and I was especially hoping that she would bring her daughter, who's close to my age and who I've been trying to strike up a friendship with. Pushpa's daughter ultimately backed out because she's a doctor and doing the baby thing, so we together, an unlikely pairing, donned some sassy wear and ventured out on a fresh, fall evening.
When we arrived, we discovered that the fundraiser was, in fact, to promote reproductive rights. Also something I very much want to support, but it was my first clue that the evening was going to have a different, um, flavor than I had originally imagined. Pushpa had showed me the extra check she'd brought along in hopes that there would be a silent auction so that she could buy presents for other people. As we were checking in, we discovered that there was no silent auction, but then we learned that instead there was a raffle.
We made our way on over to the raffle table and found an array of prizes that might be won, from baskets that included gas cards and candy on up to the grand prize, a ladies luxury package, including a cruise for 2 and sex toys!! Yikes... (I looked at Pushpa out of the corner of my eye and tried to see if she was taking this in.)
I tried to move us quickly away from that table and on over to the next where there was lots of literature about the two organizations. Available for pick-up at this table were little, plastic items that looked like those coin purses that you squeeze on both ends and then the long line opens up to expose your change. But the longer I looked at them, the more I realized that they were oddly round, whereas change purses are typically oblong. And that's when it dawned on me, that these were designed to double as a condom holder. Pushpa picked one up and thought aloud, "I could take this home to my grandson. He loves to play with this kind of stuff." I just looked back at her, wondering which way this would go. Then she threw it back down and said, "Naaaahhh." Whew...
Then, we shuffled into the next room and discovered in the dim lighting and flashing bulbs that "Prom Pictures" are being made. Once again, I started to grimace as I saw all the props that have been laid out to be utilized for pictures, including handcuffs, whips, dog collars, and whipped cream. At this point, I had to wonder how much of this my companion is picking up on. Is she taking it all in? Completely oblivious? She seemed to be enjoying herself at least partly, but I was growing increasinly uncomfortable with every new turn.
Thinking we must have reached the height of decadence, we emerged into a room full of women and men naked from the waist up getting body painted quite intricately. AAAAAAAHHHHHH. I shuffles us quickly on through there, unable to look Pushpa in the eyes and then, thank god, we found ourselves in the main room and at the bar. Unfortunately, we discovered that, despite calling the event "Sex, Wine, and Chocolate," our $20 tickets did not pay for a single drink ~ it was a cash bar. I was so annoyed. I really thought there would be at least one glass of wine in it for me!
There was, at least, copious amounts of chocolate.
And, low and behold, a beautiful half naked African-American man draped across back of the table.
It was just too much. I couldn't take it any more. Claiming that the music was too loud ~ which it was ~ I grabbed a few cookies & chocolates off of the table and asked Pushpa if she would like to go back outside with me. Bless her heart, the poor woman doesn't eat sweets and doesn't drink. Why did she even agree to come with me to this thing?
Anyway, we hung out in the lobby for a long time watching the many fabulous characters as they entered the festivities. One highlight for Pushpa, I could tell, was when we discovered that the check-in table had started distributing Obama buttons after we had come through. She was intending to make up for her lack of chocolate in schwag somehow, and this was a perfect substitute for her. She went back to the table thrice. She walked away with 8 total. Pinned them to herself, her program, and made sure I got one too. My purse now says "HOPE all over me."
We eventually ventured back into the ballroom ~ Pushpa with napkin pieces stuffed in her ears ~ and tried to take it in for a while longer. But it was just so not our scene together. Finally, I turned to her, and said, "You know, if we leave now, we'll make it home in time for the debate." I think she kind of hated to acknowledge it, but sometimes you just have to admit it's not going to get any better.
We stopped at Trader Joe's on the way home. She had never been there before, and I wanted to show her something at least a little more up her alley to my estimation. It still didn't seem to be the right thing.
As we drove home, I still wondered to myself why Pushpa had come with me. She started talking about all of the other things that we might do together ~ go to thrift shop, the movies, etc. And finally it dawned on me...I think it was to get out of the house and not babysit her grandson for a while. It didn't really matter what we did together. We were just hanging out.
And I think we had fun, even if we did get a little, um, over-stimulated, as it were.
Monday, September 22, 2008
a quote from RFK, Jr.
Fascist writer Westbrook Pegler, an avowed racist who Sarah Palin approvingly quoted in her acceptance speech for the moral superiority of small town values, expressed his fervent hope about my father, Robert F. Kennedy, as he contemplated his own run for the presidency in 1965, that "some white patriot of the Southern tier will spatter his spoonful of brains in pubic premises before the snow flies."
It might be worth asking Governor Palin for a tally of the other favorites from her reading list.
-- Robert Kennedy, Jr.
It might be worth asking Governor Palin for a tally of the other favorites from her reading list.
-- Robert Kennedy, Jr.
Friday, September 19, 2008
the dark side of internet dating
In order to fully appreciate this post, it would be very helpful to listen to the following episode of This American Life.
Dear This American Life,
It is rare that I have the impulse to write in to one of the shows that I listen to regularly on NPR, and I have never honored that impulse. However, this week my real world came colliding with the world you had built for me through the radio in an unbelievable way.
Over the weekend, a co-worker of mine called to say that she would have to cancel her reservation for tickets at the theatre where we work together because the man she was coming with had his travel delayed. I didn't ask many questions because I don't know her well, only because we haven't been working together for very long. But when I mentioned it to my boss she said, "Oh gosh, I hope this guy's for real." When I inquired further, she explained that this man was someone that my co-worker, I'll call her K., had been getting to know over the internet and this was the first time they were to see each other and that his travel had been suspiciously delayed over the course of a week.
When we got together in the office on Monday, K. explained that the story, as she understood it, was that her supposed companion was Spanish, had worked in England for a while, but had been in Nigeria for the last bit of time. When he began his trip over, he was delayed in Miami due to weather for a long time, and then he made it to Atlanta, but they flagged his visa and wouldn't let him out of the airport. And then somehow ~ mysteriously ~ someone had managed to smuggle him out of the airport to a hotel, but he didn't know where he was because it was dark when he got there. The inevitable conclusion is that, of course, K. had given money already, and more was needed. To pay off a man in Nigeria. To help him find his way out of the hotel that he didn't know where he was. Etc. Etc.
They were calling her at all hours of night and day, but K. had put her foot down and would not give any more after the first amount. She was so overwrought.
And, of course, the entire time I listened to her story, my heart was breaking because I had just listened to your previous edition of TAL about scammers based out of Nigeria and the people who set out to catch them, which is the only reason that I knew for certain that this is all a sham. That man is not anywhere in the States.
When I mentioned the story to my friend and the other women that I work with, another colleague said, "Can you send that story to me too? Our box office manager is dating someone over the internet who supposedly lives in Nigeria as well."
I'm writing you because I have no one else to write to. And I thought that someone should know that these scammers have changed up their game plan. I'm afraid that they are preying on lonely, vulnerable women on internet dating sites. This feels much more insidious to me than the previous scams on suckers who should know better than to think that they can get money for nothing. The promise of love in today's volatile world is not something to be trifled with.
The thing is, every time I talk to K. about the situation, she says she's still answering the phone. She's clearly a very intelligent woman. She's taken more than a few harsh blows from life, and I would have thought that she would have walked away from this situation by now. She keeps saying, "My head knows that you're right. But my heart just wants to go there and see the empty hotel room before I can believe it."
I don't know what you can do with this information, but I had to feel like I was doing something.
Thanks,
Shannon
(a loyal listener)
Dear This American Life,
It is rare that I have the impulse to write in to one of the shows that I listen to regularly on NPR, and I have never honored that impulse. However, this week my real world came colliding with the world you had built for me through the radio in an unbelievable way.
Over the weekend, a co-worker of mine called to say that she would have to cancel her reservation for tickets at the theatre where we work together because the man she was coming with had his travel delayed. I didn't ask many questions because I don't know her well, only because we haven't been working together for very long. But when I mentioned it to my boss she said, "Oh gosh, I hope this guy's for real." When I inquired further, she explained that this man was someone that my co-worker, I'll call her K., had been getting to know over the internet and this was the first time they were to see each other and that his travel had been suspiciously delayed over the course of a week.
When we got together in the office on Monday, K. explained that the story, as she understood it, was that her supposed companion was Spanish, had worked in England for a while, but had been in Nigeria for the last bit of time. When he began his trip over, he was delayed in Miami due to weather for a long time, and then he made it to Atlanta, but they flagged his visa and wouldn't let him out of the airport. And then somehow ~ mysteriously ~ someone had managed to smuggle him out of the airport to a hotel, but he didn't know where he was because it was dark when he got there. The inevitable conclusion is that, of course, K. had given money already, and more was needed. To pay off a man in Nigeria. To help him find his way out of the hotel that he didn't know where he was. Etc. Etc.
They were calling her at all hours of night and day, but K. had put her foot down and would not give any more after the first amount. She was so overwrought.
And, of course, the entire time I listened to her story, my heart was breaking because I had just listened to your previous edition of TAL about scammers based out of Nigeria and the people who set out to catch them, which is the only reason that I knew for certain that this is all a sham. That man is not anywhere in the States.
When I mentioned the story to my friend and the other women that I work with, another colleague said, "Can you send that story to me too? Our box office manager is dating someone over the internet who supposedly lives in Nigeria as well."
I'm writing you because I have no one else to write to. And I thought that someone should know that these scammers have changed up their game plan. I'm afraid that they are preying on lonely, vulnerable women on internet dating sites. This feels much more insidious to me than the previous scams on suckers who should know better than to think that they can get money for nothing. The promise of love in today's volatile world is not something to be trifled with.
The thing is, every time I talk to K. about the situation, she says she's still answering the phone. She's clearly a very intelligent woman. She's taken more than a few harsh blows from life, and I would have thought that she would have walked away from this situation by now. She keeps saying, "My head knows that you're right. But my heart just wants to go there and see the empty hotel room before I can believe it."
I don't know what you can do with this information, but I had to feel like I was doing something.
Thanks,
Shannon
(a loyal listener)
Monday, August 18, 2008
the writing i've been promising you...
Dear Friends,
You may remember that I've been promising you for a long time that I would write something about the performance in Blacksburg at the anniversary of the shootings. I never seemed to be able to do that in this forum, but eventually I was asked to write an article for the Community Arts Network (see short description and direct link to story below, or you can just click on the previous link to CAN for the next week or so because it's the first story on the page).
Many of the members of HERE are subscribers to this blog: Thank you for your participation in this journey and the making of the story. Writing this article made me miss you and Blacksburg again terribly. Additionally, I had two wonderful editors, one in Colorado and one in North Carolina, both of whom served as midwives to the piece. Thank you both tremendously.
Hope to hear from you all about your respective journeys on the planet.
Cheers,
Shannon
Today CAN brings you "Community Conversations through the Arts: Artistic Response After the Virginia Tech Tragedy" by Shannon Turner. Turner was a graduate student in the arts and public dialogue when the shooting rampage broke out at Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007. She joined a disparate group of Blacksburg residents who formed HERE: Honoring Experiences, Reflections, and Expressions. They wanted to create a healing artistic response to the shattering events. Turner takes the reader through a year in Blacksburg, as HERE presents many community arts events that memorialize and examine the tragedy, culminating the "Community Conversations through the Arts," a creative showcase intended to give local, amateur performers an opportunity to perform on Blacksburg's Lyric Theatre stage on the first anniversary of the shootings. She also interrogates HERE's process and its criteria for the success of the project. Shannon Turner is a member of CAN's advisory board.
Go to this entry:
http://www.communityarts.net/apinews/archivefiles/2008/08/virginia_techs.php
You may remember that I've been promising you for a long time that I would write something about the performance in Blacksburg at the anniversary of the shootings. I never seemed to be able to do that in this forum, but eventually I was asked to write an article for the Community Arts Network (see short description and direct link to story below, or you can just click on the previous link to CAN for the next week or so because it's the first story on the page).
Many of the members of HERE are subscribers to this blog: Thank you for your participation in this journey and the making of the story. Writing this article made me miss you and Blacksburg again terribly. Additionally, I had two wonderful editors, one in Colorado and one in North Carolina, both of whom served as midwives to the piece. Thank you both tremendously.
Hope to hear from you all about your respective journeys on the planet.
Cheers,
Shannon
Today CAN brings you "Community Conversations through the Arts: Artistic Response After the Virginia Tech Tragedy" by Shannon Turner. Turner was a graduate student in the arts and public dialogue when the shooting rampage broke out at Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007. She joined a disparate group of Blacksburg residents who formed HERE: Honoring Experiences, Reflections, and Expressions. They wanted to create a healing artistic response to the shattering events. Turner takes the reader through a year in Blacksburg, as HERE presents many community arts events that memorialize and examine the tragedy, culminating the "Community Conversations through the Arts," a creative showcase intended to give local, amateur performers an opportunity to perform on Blacksburg's Lyric Theatre stage on the first anniversary of the shootings. She also interrogates HERE's process and its criteria for the success of the project. Shannon Turner is a member of CAN's advisory board.
Go to this entry:
http://www.communityarts.net/
Sunday, July 13, 2008
a quote
by rilke
"And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us."
"And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us."
Saturday, July 05, 2008
“Eleven”
by Sandra Cisneros
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
Friday, June 27, 2008
do you wanna dance?
Given the somewhat depressing nature of the video I sent out earlier this week, I thought it would be nice to post something somewhat more uplifting that my friend Eleanor passed along to me, and which is guaranteed to make you smile and maybe even help you to tear up in a good way...
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/videos.shtml
http://www.wherethehellismatt
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
the story of stuff
Friends,
If you know me, if you trust me, follow this link and watch this 20-minute video. You've got the time.
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
This came along at an especially poignant time for me, as I've been unpacking things that I haven't used, and have been able to live without for 2 years. I'd be very interested to talk with you about it after you've watched.
Cheers,
Shannon
If you know me, if you trust me, follow this link and watch this 20-minute video. You've got the time.
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
This came along at an especially poignant time for me, as I've been unpacking things that I haven't used, and have been able to live without for 2 years. I'd be very interested to talk with you about it after you've watched.
Cheers,
Shannon
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
barack to the future
Hey, folks.
So, I just returned from a lovely eight-day trip to Colorado. The first four days were spent in Boulder with one my best friends in the whole wide world, Erica. We rocked the house with general funness, including buying a new-to-her car. We also sold her old one in four hours on Craig's List. I'm a new convert, for sure.
I spent the last four days in Denver at the National Performing Arts Convention. It was great, but overwhelming. Practitioners in the fields of dance, opera, choral music, theater, etc. came together for one giant convening. Interestingly, we encountered while we were there an instance of self-censorship amongst our ranks. I am going to write more about this incident on another occasion because I simply can't wait to get to what I want to tell you about...
At Synchronicity, we do our shows at 7 Stages in Little 5 Points, but our offices are actually in downtown Atlanta in the actual 5 Points area (very close the Underground). We work here because the office space is donated to us, which is a fantastic contribution to our bottom line. For months we worked with construction noise and all sorts of bizarre occurances as the place was literally being built up around us, and then one day it just kind of stopped. There was still the occasional electrician here and there, but for the most part, you could tell the building was in a holding pattern. It's run by a fellow who's name is, of all things, Pat Swindall (insert jokes here), and he has this very loud and overbearing voice as he comes barrelling down the hall barking orders to his staff. On occasion, Mr. Swindall would come through leading a tour of young lawyers or other professionals who were considering renting the office spaces all around us.
So, one day, just before I left for Colorado, a very interesting looking tour came through the building as I was walking down the hall--an entire entourage of very well dressed, very good looking African-American men. Pat pointed at our offices, and said "This is Synchronicity Theatre. They're a great bunch of ladies to work around and can tell you all about the arts in this town. Girls, you can work around the Obama campaign, can't you?"
Excuse me? The Obama Campaign?
Rachel, Amy, and I looked at each other, looked at them and said....
"Yes, we can!"
Unfortunately, we sort of geeked out and unleashed a few more cliches on them about how it would be a welcome "change," etc. But, I think they were amused.
Anyway, the entire time we were in Colorado, I would think about it, and sure as the world, when I got to work, here they are. It worked out. They signed the contract and they're here. But here's the hilarious thing. The well-dressed gentlemen, have been replaced by droves of twentysomething white kids in their shorts, t-shirts, and khakis. But, ultimately it's great. You can tell they're ready to hoof it. They're totally on fire. They don't know where the bathroom is yet, or how to work the copier, but they're so freakin' excited.
And I am too. Sometimes I answer the door just to have the opportunity to walk up with one of them and find out what brought her here or whether he would like to join me for a cup of tea in my office at 3.
It's going to be a great summer.
So, I just returned from a lovely eight-day trip to Colorado. The first four days were spent in Boulder with one my best friends in the whole wide world, Erica. We rocked the house with general funness, including buying a new-to-her car. We also sold her old one in four hours on Craig's List. I'm a new convert, for sure.
I spent the last four days in Denver at the National Performing Arts Convention. It was great, but overwhelming. Practitioners in the fields of dance, opera, choral music, theater, etc. came together for one giant convening. Interestingly, we encountered while we were there an instance of self-censorship amongst our ranks. I am going to write more about this incident on another occasion because I simply can't wait to get to what I want to tell you about...
At Synchronicity, we do our shows at 7 Stages in Little 5 Points, but our offices are actually in downtown Atlanta in the actual 5 Points area (very close the Underground). We work here because the office space is donated to us, which is a fantastic contribution to our bottom line. For months we worked with construction noise and all sorts of bizarre occurances as the place was literally being built up around us, and then one day it just kind of stopped. There was still the occasional electrician here and there, but for the most part, you could tell the building was in a holding pattern. It's run by a fellow who's name is, of all things, Pat Swindall (insert jokes here), and he has this very loud and overbearing voice as he comes barrelling down the hall barking orders to his staff. On occasion, Mr. Swindall would come through leading a tour of young lawyers or other professionals who were considering renting the office spaces all around us.
So, one day, just before I left for Colorado, a very interesting looking tour came through the building as I was walking down the hall--an entire entourage of very well dressed, very good looking African-American men. Pat pointed at our offices, and said "This is Synchronicity Theatre. They're a great bunch of ladies to work around and can tell you all about the arts in this town. Girls, you can work around the Obama campaign, can't you?"
Excuse me? The Obama Campaign?
Rachel, Amy, and I looked at each other, looked at them and said....
"Yes, we can!"
Unfortunately, we sort of geeked out and unleashed a few more cliches on them about how it would be a welcome "change," etc. But, I think they were amused.
Anyway, the entire time we were in Colorado, I would think about it, and sure as the world, when I got to work, here they are. It worked out. They signed the contract and they're here. But here's the hilarious thing. The well-dressed gentlemen, have been replaced by droves of twentysomething white kids in their shorts, t-shirts, and khakis. But, ultimately it's great. You can tell they're ready to hoof it. They're totally on fire. They don't know where the bathroom is yet, or how to work the copier, but they're so freakin' excited.
And I am too. Sometimes I answer the door just to have the opportunity to walk up with one of them and find out what brought her here or whether he would like to join me for a cup of tea in my office at 3.
It's going to be a great summer.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
the omniblog
It’s been a long time since I’ve written. I’ve had a lot of different blog concepts rattling around inside my head, but none of them have fully materialized into a complete post. So finally, I decided that I would compress them all into one.
Ladies and Gentlemen: The omniblog.
#1 The last time I wrote was around the time that I went back to Blacksburg to finish up the work that I’d been doing there and host the show in honor of the anniversary of the VT tragedy. The show was amazing, and I still for some reason don’t have the wherewithal to write about it completely.
However, there’s one interesting part about that day that’s so a chapter completely and typically out of my life. On that morning, I got up and started to go downstairs to get some laundry out of the dryer. Important laundry because it contained pieces of clothing for my outfit for that day. My slippered feet met thickly carpeted stairs, and away we go. The next thing I knew, and sadly not for the first time in my life, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs.
This is why my mother refused to ever say “break a leg” to me on the day of a show. It was always so much more likely with me than with other thespians.
The unfortunate thing about my trip down the stairs is that, while my leg was actually fine, my arm was being dragged out behind me as I went. Now, here I sit about six weeks later and my shoulder is unfortunately still kind of ouchy. I finally went to the doctor last week. I am probably looking at a situation of, at the best, a pinched nerve and, at the worst, a rotator cuff injury.
Bleh.
#2 Another thing I’ve been thinking about a lot relates to this blog in general. Every once in a while, I’ll make a post that really gets a lot of you folks talking. There are about 90 folks who subscribe to this blog, and at times, I’ve heard back from nearly half of you on one particular subject. For sure, the internet dating stuff has been richly evocative for lots of people. I’ve heard some of the most bizarre and heart-warming stories. From a friend who’s supposed other “friends” signed her up for e-harmony without her knowing about it—until she started getting the emails from strange men!—to another friend who is a housewife raising two kids on a mountainside who told me she wished there was an e-harmony for her to be able to talk to other housewives.
My point in all this is that I wish that all you fine folks who are out there—people whom I’ve known and loved and laughed with at some point in my life, people who are now far-flung to places like Colorado, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Australia—had a way to see each other. I wish that your conversations with me were visible to each other. Because there's this whole sort of meta-conversation that happens. An invisible community that you don't realize you're tapped into.
There is, of course, a way to do that. And that would be if folks would be willing to use the blog itself, rather than remaining in the realm of email. But, many of you have told me that there’s no way that you have time to make the click over, so I understand. Life is busy and hectic, and I know that there are times when I would do anything to keep from having to be on email for one second longer.
#3 Speaking of the online dating theme. Many of you were pulling for ol’ Morgan after the vivid description of our fourth date that I left you with. Sadly, there were no more. I know, I know. How could he not want to be with me after such excitement and adventure? Well, it really didn’t have as much to do with the fourth date as an overall incompatibility.
Now I’m on a dating strike for at least the month of May. Not because of Morgan. I decided that, after all the running up and down the road I’d been doing for the first four months of the year, and given the way that dating was feeling like a never-ending job interview, I wanted to give myself a break so that it might feel like fun again eventually. So, I’ve been enjoying house & dogsitting for the month of May. It’s been rather like living someone else’s life for a while. I get up every day and go for a long walk with this beautiful Collie named Bella. I eat breakfast in a great, big kitchen with lots of natural light. It’s great. Dating, schmating I say. I’m on vacation. Sort of.
#4 Ok, so I’m not really on vacation because Synchronicity, the theatre company that I work for, had two plays going on this month, so I was really working my butt off most of the time. Still, Bella and I have of late been watching in our meager free time together a fantastic show from the BBC (rented through Netflix) called Ballykissangel. The premise is that a young British priest gets sent to a small village in Northern Ireland to become the curate at their parish, though there’s an older over-bearing priest who oversees his work at the larger village nearby. I can’t recommend this show enough for character, storyline, scenery, you name it. Plus, you could watch it with your grandmother if you wanted to (I must admit this is not usually a criteria I'm looking for in my entertainment, especially since one of my grandmother's is blind and the other one would rather talk your ear off than watch something). Back to BalleyK. (as the locals call it)...It’s mostly funny, but after a drastic plot turn I witnessed yesterday, I found myself nearly in tears over the avocados at the farmer’s market. You'll find yourself dreaming of a trip to Ireland quickly, for sure.
Ok, that’s enough thought strands for now. Would love to hear from you...
Ladies and Gentlemen: The omniblog.
#1 The last time I wrote was around the time that I went back to Blacksburg to finish up the work that I’d been doing there and host the show in honor of the anniversary of the VT tragedy. The show was amazing, and I still for some reason don’t have the wherewithal to write about it completely.
However, there’s one interesting part about that day that’s so a chapter completely and typically out of my life. On that morning, I got up and started to go downstairs to get some laundry out of the dryer. Important laundry because it contained pieces of clothing for my outfit for that day. My slippered feet met thickly carpeted stairs, and away we go. The next thing I knew, and sadly not for the first time in my life, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs.
This is why my mother refused to ever say “break a leg” to me on the day of a show. It was always so much more likely with me than with other thespians.
The unfortunate thing about my trip down the stairs is that, while my leg was actually fine, my arm was being dragged out behind me as I went. Now, here I sit about six weeks later and my shoulder is unfortunately still kind of ouchy. I finally went to the doctor last week. I am probably looking at a situation of, at the best, a pinched nerve and, at the worst, a rotator cuff injury.
Bleh.
#2 Another thing I’ve been thinking about a lot relates to this blog in general. Every once in a while, I’ll make a post that really gets a lot of you folks talking. There are about 90 folks who subscribe to this blog, and at times, I’ve heard back from nearly half of you on one particular subject. For sure, the internet dating stuff has been richly evocative for lots of people. I’ve heard some of the most bizarre and heart-warming stories. From a friend who’s supposed other “friends” signed her up for e-harmony without her knowing about it—until she started getting the emails from strange men!—to another friend who is a housewife raising two kids on a mountainside who told me she wished there was an e-harmony for her to be able to talk to other housewives.
My point in all this is that I wish that all you fine folks who are out there—people whom I’ve known and loved and laughed with at some point in my life, people who are now far-flung to places like Colorado, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Australia—had a way to see each other. I wish that your conversations with me were visible to each other. Because there's this whole sort of meta-conversation that happens. An invisible community that you don't realize you're tapped into.
There is, of course, a way to do that. And that would be if folks would be willing to use the blog itself, rather than remaining in the realm of email. But, many of you have told me that there’s no way that you have time to make the click over, so I understand. Life is busy and hectic, and I know that there are times when I would do anything to keep from having to be on email for one second longer.
#3 Speaking of the online dating theme. Many of you were pulling for ol’ Morgan after the vivid description of our fourth date that I left you with. Sadly, there were no more. I know, I know. How could he not want to be with me after such excitement and adventure? Well, it really didn’t have as much to do with the fourth date as an overall incompatibility.
Now I’m on a dating strike for at least the month of May. Not because of Morgan. I decided that, after all the running up and down the road I’d been doing for the first four months of the year, and given the way that dating was feeling like a never-ending job interview, I wanted to give myself a break so that it might feel like fun again eventually. So, I’ve been enjoying house & dogsitting for the month of May. It’s been rather like living someone else’s life for a while. I get up every day and go for a long walk with this beautiful Collie named Bella. I eat breakfast in a great, big kitchen with lots of natural light. It’s great. Dating, schmating I say. I’m on vacation. Sort of.
#4 Ok, so I’m not really on vacation because Synchronicity, the theatre company that I work for, had two plays going on this month, so I was really working my butt off most of the time. Still, Bella and I have of late been watching in our meager free time together a fantastic show from the BBC (rented through Netflix) called Ballykissangel. The premise is that a young British priest gets sent to a small village in Northern Ireland to become the curate at their parish, though there’s an older over-bearing priest who oversees his work at the larger village nearby. I can’t recommend this show enough for character, storyline, scenery, you name it. Plus, you could watch it with your grandmother if you wanted to (I must admit this is not usually a criteria I'm looking for in my entertainment, especially since one of my grandmother's is blind and the other one would rather talk your ear off than watch something). Back to BalleyK. (as the locals call it)...It’s mostly funny, but after a drastic plot turn I witnessed yesterday, I found myself nearly in tears over the avocados at the farmer’s market. You'll find yourself dreaming of a trip to Ireland quickly, for sure.
Ok, that’s enough thought strands for now. Would love to hear from you...
Friday, May 09, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
April 16, 2008
I've received a lot of posts and missives from a lot of different people today both in and out of Blacksburg. Thank you for those.
I remember received a flyer over the weekend that was called "Dealing with the Anniversary." One of the things that the flyer said was that people would be more inclined to reach out to and reconnect with those they experienced the traumatic event together with. I certainly agree that I've witnessed and felt that impulse for sure, but what the flyer forgot to mention was the gravity of "will feel compelled to say something important." I remember feeling something similar this time last year as well.
My heart aches.
It aches because I am not in Blacksburg today. I had to leave the day after our show closed. (I'll tell you how that went some other time.)
As I sit here writing this, I'm listening to the commemoration ceremony that happened earlier today, and I'm waiting for the candlelight ceremony to begin.
I believe that Gov. Kaine really said it very well when he suggested that the best way that we can carry forth is to remember that each and every one of the fallen were living amazing, promising, mission-filled lives. When you look at their bios, it really is quite striking. In speaking with Steve Estrada, the man who was saddled with a great deal of the responsibility of receiving, cataloging, and archiving the amazing amount of material that was sent into Squires Student Center, I remember he told me that one letter within all of those thousands of banners, teddy bears, and other random objects had really stuck out to him. It was from a student at Christiansburg High School. Steve said that this young girl's letter was very poorly written. But it was also clear and to the point. She said that she had never been a good student and had never really let herself dream of going to college. After the shootings, when she looked at the list of the fallen and their bios, she said that it made her want to try harder.
Makes me want to try harder too.
So, now the candlelight vigil is in full swing, and it looks absolutely beautiful. Looks like the stars have fallen and are hovering a few feet off the ground. I sure do wish I could be there.
I guess I'm sort of out of things to say, so I'll leave you with this. For our show over the weekend, we ended up having a couple of acts drop out at the last minute, so I jumped in and made up a a performance for myself. I took a piece of writing that I had done last year during the weeks following April 16 and turned it into my love song to Blacksburg (particularly since I'm not so into some of that Hokie Nation stuff). I'm pasting it for you here below.
Love to you all.
Shannon
I remember received a flyer over the weekend that was called "Dealing with the Anniversary." One of the things that the flyer said was that people would be more inclined to reach out to and reconnect with those they experienced the traumatic event together with. I certainly agree that I've witnessed and felt that impulse for sure, but what the flyer forgot to mention was the gravity of "will feel compelled to say something important." I remember feeling something similar this time last year as well.
My heart aches.
It aches because I am not in Blacksburg today. I had to leave the day after our show closed. (I'll tell you how that went some other time.)
As I sit here writing this, I'm listening to the commemoration ceremony that happened earlier today, and I'm waiting for the candlelight ceremony to begin.
I believe that Gov. Kaine really said it very well when he suggested that the best way that we can carry forth is to remember that each and every one of the fallen were living amazing, promising, mission-filled lives. When you look at their bios, it really is quite striking. In speaking with Steve Estrada, the man who was saddled with a great deal of the responsibility of receiving, cataloging, and archiving the amazing amount of material that was sent into Squires Student Center, I remember he told me that one letter within all of those thousands of banners, teddy bears, and other random objects had really stuck out to him. It was from a student at Christiansburg High School. Steve said that this young girl's letter was very poorly written. But it was also clear and to the point. She said that she had never been a good student and had never really let herself dream of going to college. After the shootings, when she looked at the list of the fallen and their bios, she said that it made her want to try harder.
Makes me want to try harder too.
So, now the candlelight vigil is in full swing, and it looks absolutely beautiful. Looks like the stars have fallen and are hovering a few feet off the ground. I sure do wish I could be there.
I guess I'm sort of out of things to say, so I'll leave you with this. For our show over the weekend, we ended up having a couple of acts drop out at the last minute, so I jumped in and made up a a performance for myself. I took a piece of writing that I had done last year during the weeks following April 16 and turned it into my love song to Blacksburg (particularly since I'm not so into some of that Hokie Nation stuff). I'm pasting it for you here below.
Love to you all.
Shannon
remember when: a love song
remember when you packed up your dreams
and your broken heart
put them all in your little, red volkswagon fox
at the age of 23
and arrived in
on a sweltering august day
everyone else was arriving because they were going to school
but you’d been out of school for a year
and you were just looking for something different
so you hopped from job to job for a while
your Foxridge apartment felt like you were living in the lap of luxury
even though you were “on a budget”
that involved a $50 line of credit
and a lot of frozen burritos
but you were living on your own terms
on a january night you drove up to pandapas pond with a boy
snuck in when you shouldn’t have
you couldn’t believe you were capable of breaking the rules like that
you crunched across the snow
stood there and watched shooting stars
and he stood behind you and put his head on your shoulder so that he could see the world from your perspective
but then that’s all that happened so you drove him home *sigh*
saturdays and wednesdays at the farmer’s market
and the first time you discovered
“basil? this is basil? how can this marvelous thing be the same as
that pale, dry, dusty stuff in my cabinet?”
and how you could stand and stare at those wooden bowls for hours,
run your hands over them and wish that one day you would have enough money to buy one
when you went to work at the YMCA
and you went to your first celebration at the community gardens back behind the cemetery
you thought what a bizarre place to have a garden
but then there was the tomato tasting contest
and the kids and the dogs
and the music
under that giant tent
and remember how on that soft, summer evening
you thought maybe this is what heaven is like
you started getting really into your job
and it led you to new places in town
and you realized
that there were children growing up in the shadows of this university
who cannot read on their grade level
and people living a mile away from your own house in trailers with giant, rotted holes in the floor
standing on the corner of life with erica (also known as the intersection of college and draper)
pouring your heart out and planning world domination in bollo’s over thousands of cups of coffee
the Huckleberry Trail
the
foreign language films at the lyric
no Walmart in
and a spanikopita from Souvlaki is the fastest fast food there ever was if you tell them to throw it in a bag cold, thank you, I’ll warm it up later
after 5 years, you felt like you’d done
all the good you could do and given all you could give through the Y
so you took a giant leap and left,
went back to school to get your master’s
how excited you were to become a student again
but you were secretly scared that you couldn’t do it
and how desperately you didn’t want to have to go to football games
three years later, on the night of sunday, april 15, 2007
you wrapped up your final project on campus
and you were just so proud
you were done
nothing left to do but write the report
you walked through squires and it was buzzing with the strangest
kind of energy
and you were buzzing with that energy too
and so you took off running away
running like you haven’t done since you were a child
how you ran and ran
all the way to your car
felt like you could have run all the way to Floyd county
and you didn’t know what exactly you were running from or toward
but sometimes since then you’ve wished that you had kept on running
remember it snowed on that april morning so you decided not to go hiking to celebrate the completion of your final project
you went to gillie’s with megan and had a 122 special and it was there that the world came to a sudden
and screeching halt
....
remember when
“it’s good to see you”
didn’t mean
“i’m glad you’re alive”
remember when
you went into a place
and didn’t think
how quickly could i get out of here?
remember when
a siren
didn't make you
want to crawl out of your skin
remember when
you felt like
you were
the only one who was having a bad day
remember when someone rang the bells at the church
32 times
and you stood on the porch
and could not cry because the sky was too beautiful
remember when
our little town
felt like
our little secret
remember when
leaving our little town
felt like
the right thing to do
remember when
you knew exactly
what you needed
to do in the next day
and it didn't include
cry, pray, call your mom 3 times
and freeze up while crossing main street
remember who
remember what
when
remember when
remember
Saturday, April 05, 2008
these boots were NOT made for walking
More adventures in dating:
So, I made it all the way to a fourth date with this guy. His name is Morgan, and he's a bridge construction engineer by the way. He's nice enough, but I'm not entirely sure whether we'll be having a fifth date. Seems he was destined to witness one of my more humbling evenings. Of course, I've had a few.
This one was legendary.
The plan: Morgan had tickets for us to see Avenue Q at the big, fancy theater in town. We met up with another couple beforehand for a lovely meal and then went to see the show.
You know, it always ramps it up a notch when meeting other people is involved, and then when you throw in a nice theatre evening as well? I was a shade nervous.
I had been planning my costuming for days.
So, about an hour before I was to arrive at said date, I'm getting ready, and all of the sudden, I start feeling a little queezy in the down-low. Nothing outrageous, you know. Just not right. I took some Tums and kept trecking. There was no reason not to as far as I could tell. It was just a little occasional wave here and there of "oh gee, that's not right." When I didn't feel that, I felt completely fine. Great actually. I hadn't really eaten lunch, just snacked on trail mix and cereal, so maybe I'm just hungry I thought.
Fast forward to sitting in the restaurant, and we're having a lovely time. Everyone's really excited about the play and the food that's coming soon. I, on the other hand, am having those little moments of "uh oh" with increasing frequency. I excuse myself at a point in the conversation that is a bit awkward and go downstairs and stand over the toilet and pray. I pray that, if indeed I'm going to vomit, it will happen quickly so that I can make it back to the table within the normal parameters for being absent from a table full of diners. I want very much to play it off like I've been fluffing my hair.
No dice.
I go on back to the table and hope that perhaps eating some food will make the badness go away, but a few minutes later it hits me again. Now, we all know that there's no way that you can excuse yourself twice within 10 minutes like that without arousing suspicion, so this time, I just say, "I'm so sorry, I'm not feeling well and I'm going to have to go to the bathroom again..."
This time before I could even get to the door outside of the bathroom, my legs buckled beneath me. There I was, on all fours, doing the Technicolor Yawn. I swear I threw up things my grandmother ate.
But, the good news is, a doctor showed up on the scene right then. He started asking me all sorts of questions, and I knew I'd be alright when I heard him say, "Go find the people she's here with..." and hear myself respond....
"NOOOOOOO!!!!"
I got up out of the floor and went on into the bathroom, cleaned myself off, and was met by the woman from the other couple as I was coming out the door. I told her briefly what had happened, and we made a pact not to tell the guys about my little adventure. When we got back to the table we talked about world domination and the keyboards and screens that come out of the walls and stalls in ladies restrooms.
PART 2:
So, did I mention that it was raining cats and dogs that night?
Well, it was, and my carefully planned outfit comes to bear here. Said outfit involved these cool/funky fakeskin boots that I'd been dragging around from state to state for a couple of years now but had never worn. This seemed like the perfect occasion to, um, break them out. Well, break them in is what I should have done.
We got about 15 feet out the door of the restaurant in this heavy rain and all of the sudden, the sole of my boot separates from the top. Not just a little bit, but all the way back to the middle of my foot. These boots were stacked, and given that they were fakeskin, they rather looked like a giant alligator mouth had opened up under my foot. I had two choices in locomotion to keep from tripping. Either walk backward a la Michael Jackson Moonwalk, or walk forward and pick my foot way up off the ground in a sort of weird half high step or march.
Fortunately, the other guests in our party thought it was quite adorable, and they played along with me as we made our way from the car to the theatre. We pretended that we were in a bizarre parade and everyone walked with the half, high step. Even folks who weren't with us joined in.
When we got to the theatre, I played the "I'm in the theatre too" card, and got my way into an office to borrow some tape. Now, my fun and funky outfit has been reduced to ghetto-style white tape on my boots and my skirt is still very damp from where I've washed all the vomit off of it.
The play was fantastic. I really enjoyed that part.
But, when we left, and were trudging back through the rain toward the car, if you can believe it, my other boot did the exact same thing. I couldn't tell them. I had not a shred of dignity left at that point. So, I just shuffled along and pretended that it was because of the rain and the first boot that I was going so slow.
So, like I said, I'm not too sure I'll be making it to a fifth date with ol' Morgan. He'd have to be an awful brave soul.
Nevertheless, like so many other things in my life, as much as the night had its difficulties while in progress, I sure do enjoy telling the story now.
So, I made it all the way to a fourth date with this guy. His name is Morgan, and he's a bridge construction engineer by the way. He's nice enough, but I'm not entirely sure whether we'll be having a fifth date. Seems he was destined to witness one of my more humbling evenings. Of course, I've had a few.
This one was legendary.
The plan: Morgan had tickets for us to see Avenue Q at the big, fancy theater in town. We met up with another couple beforehand for a lovely meal and then went to see the show.
You know, it always ramps it up a notch when meeting other people is involved, and then when you throw in a nice theatre evening as well? I was a shade nervous.
I had been planning my costuming for days.
So, about an hour before I was to arrive at said date, I'm getting ready, and all of the sudden, I start feeling a little queezy in the down-low. Nothing outrageous, you know. Just not right. I took some Tums and kept trecking. There was no reason not to as far as I could tell. It was just a little occasional wave here and there of "oh gee, that's not right." When I didn't feel that, I felt completely fine. Great actually. I hadn't really eaten lunch, just snacked on trail mix and cereal, so maybe I'm just hungry I thought.
Fast forward to sitting in the restaurant, and we're having a lovely time. Everyone's really excited about the play and the food that's coming soon. I, on the other hand, am having those little moments of "uh oh" with increasing frequency. I excuse myself at a point in the conversation that is a bit awkward and go downstairs and stand over the toilet and pray. I pray that, if indeed I'm going to vomit, it will happen quickly so that I can make it back to the table within the normal parameters for being absent from a table full of diners. I want very much to play it off like I've been fluffing my hair.
No dice.
I go on back to the table and hope that perhaps eating some food will make the badness go away, but a few minutes later it hits me again. Now, we all know that there's no way that you can excuse yourself twice within 10 minutes like that without arousing suspicion, so this time, I just say, "I'm so sorry, I'm not feeling well and I'm going to have to go to the bathroom again..."
This time before I could even get to the door outside of the bathroom, my legs buckled beneath me. There I was, on all fours, doing the Technicolor Yawn. I swear I threw up things my grandmother ate.
But, the good news is, a doctor showed up on the scene right then. He started asking me all sorts of questions, and I knew I'd be alright when I heard him say, "Go find the people she's here with..." and hear myself respond....
"NOOOOOOO!!!!"
I got up out of the floor and went on into the bathroom, cleaned myself off, and was met by the woman from the other couple as I was coming out the door. I told her briefly what had happened, and we made a pact not to tell the guys about my little adventure. When we got back to the table we talked about world domination and the keyboards and screens that come out of the walls and stalls in ladies restrooms.
PART 2:
So, did I mention that it was raining cats and dogs that night?
Well, it was, and my carefully planned outfit comes to bear here. Said outfit involved these cool/funky fakeskin boots that I'd been dragging around from state to state for a couple of years now but had never worn. This seemed like the perfect occasion to, um, break them out. Well, break them in is what I should have done.
We got about 15 feet out the door of the restaurant in this heavy rain and all of the sudden, the sole of my boot separates from the top. Not just a little bit, but all the way back to the middle of my foot. These boots were stacked, and given that they were fakeskin, they rather looked like a giant alligator mouth had opened up under my foot. I had two choices in locomotion to keep from tripping. Either walk backward a la Michael Jackson Moonwalk, or walk forward and pick my foot way up off the ground in a sort of weird half high step or march.
Fortunately, the other guests in our party thought it was quite adorable, and they played along with me as we made our way from the car to the theatre. We pretended that we were in a bizarre parade and everyone walked with the half, high step. Even folks who weren't with us joined in.
When we got to the theatre, I played the "I'm in the theatre too" card, and got my way into an office to borrow some tape. Now, my fun and funky outfit has been reduced to ghetto-style white tape on my boots and my skirt is still very damp from where I've washed all the vomit off of it.
The play was fantastic. I really enjoyed that part.
But, when we left, and were trudging back through the rain toward the car, if you can believe it, my other boot did the exact same thing. I couldn't tell them. I had not a shred of dignity left at that point. So, I just shuffled along and pretended that it was because of the rain and the first boot that I was going so slow.
So, like I said, I'm not too sure I'll be making it to a fifth date with ol' Morgan. He'd have to be an awful brave soul.
Nevertheless, like so many other things in my life, as much as the night had its difficulties while in progress, I sure do enjoy telling the story now.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Lest We Forget
Lest We Forget: An open letter to my sisters who are brave. The author argues that we must build alliances not on ethnicity or gender, but on truth.
By Alice Walker
TheRoot.com
March 27, 2008
http://www.theroot.com/id/45469
By Alice Walker
TheRoot.com
March 27, 2008
http://www.theroot.com/id
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
that fundraising e-mail...
I remember it used to happen when I was younger. Someone was going on tour with Up with People and needed to raise $10,000. Someone else had gone to work in an underfunded school in an urban area through Teach for America and was writing back to raise money for their much needed school supplies (appalling when you think about it).
More recently, I have always enjoyed buying cookie dough for the New School, taking clothes to and making purchases from the Y Thrift Shop, and making my semi-annual pledge to NPR (usually in more than one city) every year.
Now, I find myself working in the arts, and I feel like I'm fundraising ALL the time. I mean, I am a Development Director in one of my jobs (for Synchronicity Performance Group), but really in my other one, and in my volunteer networks and for the whole field I'm always thinking about the problems we have with funding. And let me tell you folks, as the economy tightens its belt, we out here who depend on grants, corporate sponsorship, individual donors, special events, etc., we're going to be some of the first to suffer. I'm already seeing the signs in some of the work that I do.
So, I've been thinking about it, and, well, I'm a pretty good person. I put as much positive energy out into the universe as I can. As I mentioned before, I support as many nonprofits as the $15,000 I earned last year would allow.
Which is why I've decided to call on my network. I really thought I'd never do something like this, and now that I've let myself start thinking this way, I'm not even going to promise I'll never do it again, but here's the issue du jour...
Many of you know that I've been doing work back in Blacksburg about the shootings at Virginia Tech...HERE:Honoring Experiences, Reflections, and Expressions. We're working toward having an event on April 13, close to the anniversary on April 16. The event will be a multidisciplinary artists' response. It's shaping up to be a wonderful afternoon of programming, and I'm really looking forward to it. The problem is that we're still fundraising for it. We really want it to be free to the community for obvious reasons, and in a lot of ways, in my opinion, other than just the lag in the economy, fundraising for this kind of activity may be close to tapped out because so many people have been giving to the Hokie Spirit Memorial Fund (which went to the victims' families) and other very worth causes such as the Red Cross, etc.
So...borrowing from a fabulous idea that we have going at Synchronicity called "Ten Lousy Bucks," which is like "come on just send us $10 of your money and we'll give you ten reasons why you should," I'm calling on the "Friends/Family of Shannon Network" in hopes that you will put a little money (or maybe a little more money?) in an envelope and send it along to Blacksburg. Here we go with, mmm...I can think of 5 reasons this morning why...
New River Valley P.O. Box 6009 , Christiansburg , VA 24068-6009
I hope you don't mind that I've used you in this way. ;) And, as always, I hope to hear from you as individual people whom I love and miss like crazy.
Cheers,
Shannon
More recently, I have always enjoyed buying cookie dough for the New School, taking clothes to and making purchases from the Y Thrift Shop, and making my semi-annual pledge to NPR (usually in more than one city) every year.
Now, I find myself working in the arts, and I feel like I'm fundraising ALL the time. I mean, I am a Development Director in one of my jobs (for Synchronicity Performance Group), but really in my other one, and in my volunteer networks and for the whole field I'm always thinking about the problems we have with funding. And let me tell you folks, as the economy tightens its belt, we out here who depend on grants, corporate sponsorship, individual donors, special events, etc., we're going to be some of the first to suffer. I'm already seeing the signs in some of the work that I do.
So, I've been thinking about it, and, well, I'm a pretty good person. I put as much positive energy out into the universe as I can. As I mentioned before, I support as many nonprofits as the $15,000 I earned last year would allow.
Which is why I've decided to call on my network. I really thought I'd never do something like this, and now that I've let myself start thinking this way, I'm not even going to promise I'll never do it again, but here's the issue du jour...
Many of you know that I've been doing work back in Blacksburg about the shootings at Virginia Tech...HERE:Honoring Experiences, Reflections, and Expressions. We're working toward having an event on April 13, close to the anniversary on April 16. The event will be a multidisciplinary artists' response. It's shaping up to be a wonderful afternoon of programming, and I'm really looking forward to it. The problem is that we're still fundraising for it. We really want it to be free to the community for obvious reasons, and in a lot of ways, in my opinion, other than just the lag in the economy, fundraising for this kind of activity may be close to tapped out because so many people have been giving to the Hokie Spirit Memorial Fund (which went to the victims' families) and other very worth causes such as the Red Cross, etc.
So...borrowing from a fabulous idea that we have going at Synchronicity called "Ten Lousy Bucks," which is like "come on just send us $10 of your money and we'll give you ten reasons why you should," I'm calling on the "Friends/Family of Shannon Network" in hopes that you will put a little money (or maybe a little more money?) in an envelope and send it along to Blacksburg. Here we go with, mmm...I can think of 5 reasons this morning why...
- A great deal of the money we're raising for this endeavor directly pays artists to help me make this show happen. We call them "curators" for their individual disciplines (dance curator, film curator, etc.). We all know that artists are not paid well, and as I mentioned before, we could be looking at a time where it's going to get worse.
- You would be paying for a time for up to 475 people to be sitting together with their community, not watching TV, driving cars, looking at lascivious material on the internet, or supporting the candidate that you don't want them to.
- It's a tax deductible donation, and well, if you make enough money to do that, then you know that's a good thing.
- Have I mentioned that I'll forever be in a state of gratitude to you? I will wash your car when I see you again!
- If you don't live in Blacksburg, you may not have had the opportunity to donate yet to the healing there, but probably during the week following thought "gosh, I wish I knew something to do in this situation." Now, here you are almost a year later, and you know exactly what you can do.
I hope you don't mind that I've used you in this way. ;) And, as always, I hope to hear from you as individual people whom I love and miss like crazy.
Cheers,
Shannon
Monday, February 18, 2008
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