James Gandolfini, Peter Jensen, and the Importance of Acting from Wholeness

Ten years ago, James Gandolfini was interviewed on Inside the Actors Studio. He spoke candidly about emotional honesty both onstage and off -- particularly dealing with intense and taboo emotions like rage.

And although it took a few years to sink in ... his words changed my life.

I have found myself revisiting those words over the years, in daily life and in my performing work -- most recently in my current scene class at the esteemed T. Schreiber Studio, with my teacher Peter Jensen. (Yes, I'm totally psyched to be working with this studio again!)

Here is the full quote (the first part can be seen here starting at 7:50, and the last bit is continued here) but I've highlighted the sentences that stuck with me:

James Gandolfini on "Inside the Actors Studio"

One of the major things in an [acting] class... is to get up in front of people and just start to be able to make a fool of yourself. ... I remember one thing [my first acting teacher] did for me that ... got me to a new level was--  I had such anger back then... When you're young ... everybody does. You're pissed and you're not sure why. That's probably why you're all sitting here [at the Actor's Studio], because you want to express something and you don't know what it is. And she kept telling me, "Go ahead, go ahead." And I never wanted to. ... Something happened ... 

I think she told a partner to do something to me, and he did it. And I destroyed the place, you know, just all that crap they have onstage. And then she said at the end of it -- I remember my hands were bleeding a little bit, and the other guy had gotten off -- and she goes, 'See, everybody's fine ... nobody's hurt. This is what you have to do. This is what people pay for. If you don't want to do it, get off. But this is what people pay for to see. They don't want to see the guy next door...'  And that was a big step for me because then I could start to go to where my anger was ... and realize that I could control it.

Although I had not done theater for a while -- and didn't plan to as I'd started bellydancing -- I thought of this interview again and again. It became a heartening refrain for emotional, psychological, and creative integrity:

"Be able to make a fool of yourself."  Go ahead and lose it, because "this is what people pay to see."

Years later, when I returned to scene study class, Peter echoed this refrain, encouraging us to allow those behaviors and qualities most repugnant to us, because "the character is basically yourself under certain circumstances."

James Lipton of "Inside the Actors Studio"

In acting, we often forget this.

We get so involved with "creating" a character, that we forget that all we have to work with is ourselves.

Even if we are portraying a character that is wildly different from us -- so wholly anathema to the person we'd like to be that it frightens us -- onstage and off we are still always ourselves.

We must reach inside ourselves to find an authentic seed of the character, or we'll end up faking our way through each line, hoping the audience doesn't catch on.

Even if they don't notice or don't care because we've turn in an entertaining "fake" performance, it won't be satisfying  because we know it's fake. And we know the audience deserves better than that.

So this is what I've been working on in class -- finding those uncomfortable "seeds" in myself and letting them be felt and seen.

A few weeks ago, Peter assigned a scene from Sam Shepard's A Lie of the Mind between a man who had just beaten his wife to the point of brain damage, and the man's mother ... me.

Like much of Shepard's work, it's a twisted comedic melodrama that nests disturbing emotional truths within extreme characters and interactions that stretch plausibility. In our scene, my character is spoon-feeding her grown son "your favorite [soup]... Cream of Broccoli I made it special in the blender ... just how you like it!", as he lies tight-lipped in his childhood bed.

She babies, then bullies him, then goes on about her own life, and babies him again until he explodes. And she explodes right back. And it becomes very clear very quickly that she made him into the monster he is.

This woman combines the dark, needy manipulation of Livia Soprano with the saccharine maternal cooing of a Mommie Dearest who will do anything to get what she wants -- and what she wants is to make her Golden Son stay with her forever and ever and ever and ever.

In short: she is everything I hate about women.

Peter, I think, knew I was less than comfortable with this character; plus the scene started with a massive page-long monologue that would take me a while to memorize, so he suggested that my partner Adam and I improvise a scene that occurs sometime before the action of the play.

Peter Jensen in the indie film "A Memory"

So we went about six years back, to the evening Adam's character decides to announce to his mother that he has asked his girlfriend to marry him. This, we figured, would hit every button for the mother.

As the scene began, I had no idea how I would react to this news, and I was surprised to find my/herself simply choosing not to hear him (this, I later realized, was my grandmother's strategy -- if you hear something you don't want to hear, just block it out and continue with your own narrative).

And the scene became a nasty little comedy -- of him trying to tell his mother how much he loves his finaceé ... and of her going on about Wheel of Fortune, and how he should find himself a pretty girl like Vanna White. In short, invalidating -- annihilating -- him with each exchange.

And when he finally gets upset, she/I innocently asks why he is upset, "and maybe this is why you can't find a good woman!" At each turn she forces her own reality down his throat until he threatens to leave.

And then her threats came out:  "If you leave, don't think about coming back" -- anything, anything to get him to stay.

When finally, through sheer, brute force, he slams his own reality (as in the real reality) down her throat so that she has no choice but to hear it ... I felt a desperate, searing, percolating rage ... I bellowed like a beast and raised my hand to strike his face.

His eyes flashed wide and the other students held their breath. And in that moment I felt a rush of power. He had backed down!! ... But then I saw my partner, Adam -- not my wayward strikeworthy son.

And immediately, I realized, "Whoa ... so that's why people do this -- bullying, intimidating -- anything to control the other person." And then an impulse to rein it in reached up inside me, not wanting to hurt, not wanting to control ... And my hand stopped.

But then I realized that this is what made me not her. We all have these rages, these screaming, struggling infant needs to make the world into ourselves -- but most of us have the impulse not to hurt, while this character does not.

And I needed to let go of that part of myself if I was going to be true to her.

So as my hand was raised to hit him, I felt an inner hand release control. And I ripped into him again.

And his eyes flattened back into his character's cold defiance. He battered me with maelstrom cruel truths and stormed off. I wailed for a moment and then, realizing he was gone, true to character calmly brushed myself off and went back to Wheel of Fortune.

Of course the moment the scene was over, and I was myself again, I was teary and shaken through the feedback session. After a breath, Peter began, "Both of you ... went somewhere new here."

We glanced at each other, nodding "yes."

Tears slid from my eyes as we continued -- partly because I had frightened myself by losing control (even though I hadn't fully lost it), partly because I had never consciously allowed myself to experience that level of destructive rage, but mostly because I finally understood this character and felt her icy echo in myself.

And although I have seen this behavior in others, I had never understood the impetus behind it -- never felt it fully from the inside.

So to be able to say -- "Yes, I have this in me too" -- was a blow to my ego, because I would like to believe I am for the most part kind and goodhearted and well meaning, that I would never do what this woman does.

And yet, as an actor, I must do those things; I must truthfully allow those forbidden parts of myself.

I must be my whole self.

When we perform, our audience needs that -- anything less and both they and we are gypped.

Part of the reason we prize actors like James Gandolfini so highly is that they reach those hidden, forbidden parts of the self; they express what we can't, fully and without reservation. They both express extremes cathartically for us, and reassure us that such powerful emotion can be erupt fully, truthfully, and safely -- invoked within the containment of a theatrical play, and deeply humanized through a character with which we empathize.

And in this way, a great performance opens something in us, gives us access to those parts of ourselves that we dare not see, much less express -- allowing us, perhaps, a path towards those uncomfortable emotions that we try to deny, granting a sliver towards our own wholeness.

Because when we deny uncomfortable emotions, attempting to crush their very existence -- that is when they do become dangerous, looking for breaks in our armor through which they can erupt with with all the vengeance of a repressed creature. And we become afraid of ourselves (and, consequently, afraid of others).

Theater -- great storytelling of any kind -- expresses, metabolizes, and humanizes what seems most foreign to us, and in so doing brings the performer and audience to a greater understanding and wholeness.

Why Bother?

"I don't know why you even bother with these people. There are better uses for your time."

It's the mid-90s and I've just gleefully read aloud my letter to the editor of the NY Press which had been printed that day. It was a satirical response to the prior issue's horrifyingly racist essay bemoaning the "influx of brown people" and subsequent decline of Western Civilization.

My letter was a good piece of writing and I was proud of it. But my roommate just sneered and shook his head: "Why on earth do you bother?!"

I was crestfallen, shamed, silenced.

At that time the NY Press was a free alternative weekly newspaper that became so popular it forced the venerable Village Voice to forego its cover price.

The Press was the conservative answer to the liberal Voice -- and even though I'm a dyed-in-the-organic-wool liberal ... I guiltily had to admit I enjoyed the Press more. It was what Jerry Springer was to Phil Donahue -- mad, incendiary, argument-for-argument's-sake trainwreck entertainment. And I adored it. And it liked me back.

For about a year I wrote letters poking fun at some of the racist, sexist, homophobic rantings of its various conservative authors. Stuff like:  "It was the tone of voice your father used when he told you what girls were for." Or, "How can a man use another man the way he would use a woman," or, in this most recent diatribe, "Masses of brown washing up on our shores" (or something to that effect -- this author quoted liberally from the execrable racist tome The Camp of the Saints.)

Nearly every letter I sent was selected for print! It was exhilarating! 

For years after college I had been blocked as a writer. Even doing stand-up, I was afraid of writing anything down because I was afraid of how it would look in print. It took years of acting in plays before I culled the nerve to write even short plays and monologues, most of which I was afraid even to submit for production.

But now, thanks to the Press, I was beginning to feel bolder and considered pitching a column to the editors ... but after this devastating exchange with my roommate, I went back to questioning myself -- what I wanted, what I felt, what I enjoyed.

To make it worse, he followed up with stuff like, "I'm only telling you this because I care about you and I don't want to see you waste your time."

With a decade of hindsight, I realized that he may simply have been jealous. Whatever else the Press may have been, it had a hell of a readership.

And even if its entire mission was to be one big fat hardcopy pre-internet troll, the conversations it stirred -- about race, sexuality, class, bigotry -- were worth having. And I LOVED having them. And I was good at it.

But that one sentence -- "You're wasting your time" -- deflated my enthusiasm faster than the harshest insult. It was a stealth blade, carving through my defenses with the claim of good intentions.

It echoed my sister, when I told her I was trying stand-up comedy:  "Ugh! That's so stupid. Why would you even want to do that??!"

Or my boyfriend when I wanted to start a fan club for my favorite band, "Why are you even bothering with that? You should do something real!"

Again and again this happened. I'd want to do a thing and make the mistake of telling someone whose opinion I was foolish enough to value, and I'd get: "What for? Why do you care? Why bother??!?"

Needless to say, not one of them had any thoughts about what was "real" or "smart" or "productive" or "worth bothering" over. And if they did, would their suggestions truly have been more "real/ smart/ productive/ worthwhile" than the things I wanted to do?

No.

Because the very fact that I wanted to do these things, that I enjoyed and was drawn to them -- that fact in itself -- made them worthwhile to me!

And that is what counts.

Knowing what we want, what we care about, what interests us is part of who we are. This, and only this, is what makes life fulfilling for us -- whether it's mastering an art or playing video games or getting a degree or getting laid -- if we do what makes us happy, and are able to make a living because or in spite of it, and aren't hurting innocent people -- whose business is it to judge one way or the other??

If we are able to pay attention to, honor, and follow our small, immediate joys, we become able to form larger goals that will be genuinely rewarding for us. That is the only way to avoid the trap of hollow ego goals which, once fulfilled ... tend to be unfulfilling.

Now, we might find an immediate enjoyment in conflict with a larger goal -- like if I want to run a marathon but stay home watching TV every day rather than running. Then a friend might point out that there was a conflict between what I am doing and what I say I want which would need to be dealt with.

But even there, the choice is:  "What makes me happier?" not "Which is more real/ smart/ productive/ worthwhile?"

Ask:  "Do I truly enjoy the TV I'm watching, or am I just staying in my comfort zone? Do I really enjoy running or do I just want to say I've run a marathon to puff up my ego?" (There is more to be said on "authentic goals vs. ego goals," but that is a topic for another essay!)

So the next time you tell a friend or family member about something you want to do, and with irritation they respond: "Why on earth would you want to bother with that??"

Tell them:  "It's no bother to me. Now, why does it bother you?"

True Beauty

In a recent blog entry, acclaimed writer (and awesome guy) Don Cummings mused on beauty in the media, about the "women who are upset...about the images that are being fed to them," admitting, "It's awful," but asking, "Can't the women in movies and on T.V. still be pretty? ... As far as magazines go, the air brushing and slimming and all that, well that's just hell. But please leave me my good looking film and television actors. I'm getting old and loose and I like to be reminded of what it once was like. Hot is hot. It keeps us going. Some joy, please."

So I thought about this for a while, as someone who feels strongly that the emphasis on beauty (especially upon women) is damaging to women personally, and to the culture as a whole... And I thought about the breathtakingly beautiful actors I love to watch. And I thought about the actors who are physically beautiful, and yet whom I find unwatchable because their acting is thin and self-serving.

So I responded with this (slightly modified) comment to Don's entry:

The problem isn't so much not wanting beauty in media, but rather that the definition of "beauty" (certainly where women are concerned) isn't really beauty at all, but conformity to a very narrow set of Barbie-esque physical characteristics that are in fact unhealthy to the point of being grotesque. 

But women are told that if we don't conform to this standard, we won't be valued -- as women or people!

And men are so conditioned to value this standard, that they will override their own natural impulse to see beauty in women who don't fit this standard, in order to maintain status with their male friends. 

I have known quite a few men who have rejected women they admitted to being attracted to -- physically and intellectually -- in favor of a Barbie-esque "beautiful" woman to whom they didn't feel much innate attraction, but whom they believed their friends and family would value more and thereby grant them higher status.

In terms of media, the double-standard is evident. 

You say, "Don't take away the beautiful women." But look at the men. They are all different shapes and sizes, and they all get the girl... who always looks the same: slim, young, even-featured, and usually large-breasted.

It is said that Cleopatra was the most beautiful woman in the world, but that was not because her physiognomy was so special, but rather her charisma and intelligence were irresistible. 

In a recent meme, Emma Thompson is quoted as advising actresses, in response to demands that they "lose weight", to ask, "Is this important for the character?" And if it isn't then they should ask the casting director to tell them that what they want is a model, not an actress. 

In the early '90s, balding, aging actors like Patrick Stewart and Anthony Hopkins became sex symbols -- based on their power as performers and men. Women found them very beautiful indeed. It's said that Patrick Stewart telephoned a woman suffering from ovarian cancer, and the disease went into remission almost immediately.

So it's not that anyone wants less beauty in the media; in fact, we want more of it, in all of its stunning, fascinating, riveting, and transformative variety.

Needless to say, this is a topic I have given a great deal of thought to -- especially in my ten years in bellydance -- often regarded as a quintessentially sexy-beautiful dance form. And it is something I address strongly in Blood on the Veil -- that beauty comes from feeling and expression, from vitality and confidence, far more than from physiognomy.

As I mentioned in a recent ReviewFix interview:  What we want is an experience of beauty, where a thing is beautiful to us because it resonates deeply. This kind of beauty is arresting and powerful, sometimes even disturbing, because it tells us something about ourselves -- and we don't always want to know about ourselves.

The beauty of physiognomy may be pleasing and comforting, and to be sure it has its place in the culture. But it doesn't give us anything new or nourishing or unique, it simply recycles the current images that we are told to value -- and if we do as we are told, then we will be valued too ... or so we are led to believe.

But if we let ourselves respond naturally to the world around us -- regardless of what we are told to believe -- to find what is beautiful to us, uniquely, and enjoy that beauty for its own sake rather than as a way to seek acceptance and approval from others ... how vast and beautiful and joyful might our lives become?

And how might our appreciative gaze nourish the world itself, in its magnificent variety, into greater and greater beauty?

Visioning the New Year Part III: The Goddess Lives...on Neon Pink Posterboard!

Continued from Part I: Mandala Misgivings, and Part II: The Jason Journal

...And then came Goddess Vision Board Day......

Not off to an easy start, I showed up at the First U chapel more than two hours late -- but enthusiastically loaded down with an overflowing box of markers, magazines, and all my old art supplies (I actually used to be pretty decent with a paint brush and was twice the Art Director of my HS literary magazine). 

The project was in full swing, with the group cheerily clipping, pasting, and chatting around a table at the center of the room.

And in the center of the table was the dreaded stack of periodicals -- to me a glossy-leafed impenetrable mess.

My head buzzed with an all too familiar leaden throb. There was just too much stuff!

I took a few calming breaths: "Follow your impulses. You'll find your way to the images you need. Clip out what moves you, leave the rest." To many in the room, I figure these were easy and obvious instructions... but to me the very notion was painfully difficult, almost petrifying. 

(I have a history of anxiety, by the way, and started furiously grinding my teeth in my sleep at age seven... but that is a matter for another day...)

Too daunted by the overflowing table, I circled the room, finding my way to some pretty neon colored posterboards that the facilitators had brought. I picked out a pink one. And I don't even like pink ... usually.

But I liked this one.

I set it down on the stage area at the head of the chapel and made my way to the Big Table o' Stuff.

But I wasn't ready to deal with it. 

I got my art box, which was bursting with so much stuff I needed a bungee cord to keep it together, and even then the pastels, pencils, acrylics, and brushes had collapsed into anarchy during the trip. So I organized the box -- even though I knew I probably wasn't going to use much of it, the simple act of going through this part of my own history, which had been left untouched for decades, grounded me enough to face the table.

And so I returned to the stack, following my improv teacher's advice:  When in doubt, breathe through your mouth, follow your impulses, and trust that whatever you do is The Right Thing.

Well, it's my freaking collage after all, I figured -- don't I get to say what's right or not???

Actually, I kind of don't -- that's the problem.

I've learned, when it comes to creativity, we can't just choose willy-nilly. There is a "right", but it must be found, not forced. 

A thing is "right" if it feels right, if it "pops". So I figured, if I choose by that guidance, then whatever I choose will be "right" enough to proceed.

I leafed through the nearest magazine and tore out any image that "popped" -- no matter how incongruous, absurd, or even clichéd it seemed. Stuff like "Do What's Good For You" jumped out, and "Pay It Forward", "INSPIRE!" (in bold italic capitals), a determined woman working out, an old typewriter, a big cat and a cobra, angels ... even Middle Eastern royalty ... and a figure of a blinded young man in the nurturing arms of his burqa'd mother ... all of it resonated. 

I brought my scraps to the posterboard and cut them carefully, cleanly and placed them around the board as though it were a jigsaw -- large images at the corner and along the bottom, giving the piece an "anchored" feel.

And then the smaller bits swirling around the an image of myself, clipped from a Blood on the Veil flyer, at the center. Topped off with swirls of glitter, stars and musical notes, the mandala completed itself.

And here it is!!

At first I thought I would do more work at home, that I should fill in the empty spaces .... but when I tacked it to my door ... I realized it was done. Wholly done.

Over the years I've gotten the same advice from spiritual, psychological, and creative teachers:  If you want to make a good choice, pay attention to how a thing feels, because it is through our feeling alone that we experience joy, satisfaction, contentment. If joy is what we want as the result, then the initial choices must have joy in them. Further, it is a sense that is entirely ours and not subject to the judgmental whims of others.

And it is through feeling that the "divine feminine" speaks to us, an inner wisdom that guides, calms, contains our varying states of life, that gives us an inner vision to complement and ground the outer Polaris spun by culture, media, friends, teachers.

Without the former, the latter can tear us up by the roots -- a hapless state in which I spent many years, and which left me unable to create anything at all, much less a physical manifestation of my own Inner Goddess.

Yet now -- plain and simple as neon pink Staples-bought posterboard -- there it was.

And every day, when I leave home, and return again, I see my Goddess Vision Board. And I ask myself, "Do I enjoy looking at this? Do I feel inspired, comforted, invigorated by it? Do I smile when I see it without looking to improve it?"

And every day, the answer is:  Yes.

Visioning The New Year Part II: The Jason Journal

(Continued from Part I: Mandala Misgivings)

In October 2013, I had the honor of working with a remarkable group from First Unitarian in Brooklyn Heights on a production of Mother Wove the Morning -- a theatre show of monologues and vignettes of women's stories throughout history. 

The producers had seen Blood on the Veil and asked me to do an entr'acte to Act 2 excerpting a brief monologue from my show, and ending with a dance where I would bring the cast onstage as part of the routine.

I was initially nervous working with this new group, but was so impressed by the integrity of their work, their commitment not simply to honoring the feminine, but to expressing how the denigration of the feminine hurts both men and women (the final monologue was by a man) ... the experience proved magical beyond my hopes.

Since then, I've joined them for various events and outings, including a trip to see Judy Chicago's watershed feminist art installation The Dinner Party at The Brooklyn Museum, and a winter solstice celebration where we shared songs and poems. I choreographed a simple candle dance that the group could do in a circle, in the tradition of sacred circle dances. 

Then in early January the group exchanged a few emails about putting together "Goddess Vision Boards" ... now, what were these? A scrapbook-type collage of images and words pulled from magazines, calendars, and other printed media, maybe with some other sparkly-starry-glittery stuff thrown in. 

In other words:  Barf.

You see, I hate scrapbooking. I mean I REALLY HATE scrapbooking. 

Over the years I've done various new agey workshops, retreats, seminars--you name it--where inevitably the instructor/leader/facilitator shows up one day with a bunch of magazines and scissors. And if I know this day is coming, I unfailingly find a way to have a "scheduling conflict."

The last time scrapbooking came into my life was at one of Dunya's Dancemeditation retreats a few years ago, where we were to paste images into our journals. (Journals. Ugh. Another practice that I have detested passionately since grade school, but which has plagued me like Jason from Friday the 13th.) 

But it was part of The Work, and I was committed to The Work. (Plus I was staying at the retreat center and I had already managed to get sick enough to stay in bed during Scrapbook Day the year before.)

And so I brought my ugly little book and wrote in it during the detested journal exercises. My pen would drag and halt on the page; I'd feel like my body was covered in goo. I felt like everything I wrote was idiotic and embarrassing.

And, yes, I asked myself why it bothered me so much ... and came up with the usual answers: It felt childish, self-indulgent, foolish. And I did not want to be any of those things. 

And when Scrapbook Day came around, and I looked at the flapping mound of periodicals in the center of the room ... I felt scared. It was just too much stuff, too many images. How could I choose? 

And I realized that the sense of childishness, foolishness came from feeling overwhelmed -- as I felt so often from around age 6. There was always too much information, too many choices; how could I choose? 

And how could I know I made the right choice? The choice that deserved to be put on paper and surrounded by words from my pen? And how did I know that even those words deserved to be committed to paper? (And why the hell was I getting so upset about this??!?!)

And that's where the dreaded self-indulgent part came in. 

For reasons that I'll explore more fully in another entry, I have since early childhood had a persistent unrelenting shaming voice that told me that anything I liked or wanted was bad or wrong, or I was bad or wrong for wanting or liking it. Expressing a like or desire was to open myself up to shame and ridicule, so I found myself constantly asking, "Is it OK to like such-and-such" or worse, "what should I like."

It's that second question that is the killer. Because once you begin to program yourself to second-guess and/or crush every impulse, you will close off your native creativity--which is guided by those very feelings, wants, impulses.

So I started with the journal. 

I found some images I sort of liked and pasted them in. It felt fake and stupid, but I did it anyway. When, as assigned, I wrote in the journal -- eventually coming to those images (the idea was that they would inspire your writing as you came to them), I felt pretty dull, numb, and irritated by them. 

So I wrote about the dullness, numbness, and irritation. 

And I found that just acknowledging those feelings began to open a door. 

I never did take up handwritten journaling as a consistent practice, but my writing began to free up -- which ultimately led me to trust myself enough to blog a bit more (speaking of self-indulgent acts! ☺), and then to write Blood on the Veil.

Last year I had become friendly with a painter, who inspired me towards putting images on paper.

And then came Goddess Vision Board Day....

To be continued....

Visioning the New Year Part I: Mandala Misgivings

This year marks my 20th year of work in Jungian psychology, first as an analysand, and then as an avid member of the Analytical Psychology Club of New York and Jung Foundation of New York, through which I attended countless lectures, seminars, retreats, and workshops -- as well as read tome upon tome of Jungian work.

Many workshops involved creative processes including writing through active imagination, sculpture, movement, and most often drawing, painting, and other graphical art.

And yet I have never created a Mandala -- a contained work of art representing one's inner world. 

Jung himself refers to creating his own Mandalas, as well as to his analysands creating theirs -- my own analyst has suggested I give it a try -- and I've never doubted that doing so would be good for me. Yet whenever a Mandala creation workshop would come around, I'd somehow manage to have a scheduling conflict.

Truth is:  I think I've been afraid to. 

I've been afraid of the blank canvas as much as I've been afraid of the blank page. What if I chose the wrong symbols? What if I chose based on ego rather than intuition? 

What if I made a Mandala that showed me not who I really was, but who I wish I were, or was afraid I might be? Or what if it were a nonsensical jumble of images?

Well... even that could have been helpful.

As I've become more at home in my own creativity these past few years, I have become less afraid of things coming out wrong, and been more at ease with letting them simply come out ... and then going from there. 

A Mandala helps to restore order in the psyche, as well as free up energy for creativity.  

As Jung notes:

The mandala serves a conservative purpose—namely, to restore a previously existing order. But it also serves the creative purpose of giving expression and form to something that does not yet exist, something new and unique.

In my case, though, I was afraid it would be like opening an overstuffed closet -- and getting clobbered by an avalanche of psychological detritus. 

Could I bear to sift through it the misshapen, crumpled, boxed, bagged, and even broken parts of myself -- and recognize them as my own? 

And the answer is:  I don't know. 

I haven't done it yet.

But I did take my first tentative steps as the New Year began....

Continued in Part II: The Jason Journal.

Mixed Tapes

"When you get home, Carol, listen to the tape."

I am in my early 20s crying my face off in acting class. For the past few months I have been working on a monologue, struggling with it ... a deeply emotional piece, raw dialogue that is so foreign to me, my mouth contorts to form the sounds.

In this class, we "work" every other week: The class is divided in half. Each session, half the class presents a monologue as though it were for an audition, with no feedback from the teacher or class aside from possible applause. The students in the other half of the class present their monologues, and then get a half-hour to explore it textually, emotionally, applying various techniques from the teacher's eclectic background.

We all bring cassette tapes to record our work.

This is my "audition" week. No feedback.

The week before I had worked into tears (and this was the kind of class where, if you didn't cry, it wasn't "good work"), but it still felt wrong. I could not find the character, the voice. It was strangled and dead. The tears were more for myself, my inadequacy, rather than borne of the character.

Over subsequent days, I said the lines again and again, embedding the language in my tongue, just reciting them blandly. Then I did emotional work, finding a parallel situation, bringing myself through a meditation to reach directly into the memory. Gave me nightmares.

When it came time to present the monologue in class, I was sick and shaking. I don't even remember starting. I barely remember a word coming out of my mouth, but I remember feeling OK. I remember feeling ... something. And I remember ... when I stopped....

There was silence.

No one clapped or even smiled, just nothing. I was devastated.

I went back to my chair, still shaking and holding back tears. I kept them back for two hours, until class ended, and as the others gathered their things, I collapsed in a puddle.

"What on earth is the matter?" the teacher asked, putting an arm around me. I squirmed away. "Nothing. It's nothing." I cried harder.

"Now I will not let you leave until you tell me," the teacher demanded.

"It's just... it's just," I gurgled, "I worked so f*cking hard on that monologue... you have no idea."

"I know!" she beamed, "It was wonderful!"

"What?" I blurted, "Well you're the only one that thinks so!"

"What do you  mean?"

"Well, when I was done -- the class, they just ... they just sat there! And don't give me some crap about 'stunned silence' -- if you like something, you clap, right?"

"Um... Carol ... You need to listen to the tape. That's all I'm going to say." She handed me the cassette with one last pat on the shoulder and walked off.

For three days I could barely look at the tape, much less listen to it.

But finally I shoved it in my boombox and gritted my teeth.

The voice was mine, but different. The character sounded .... real. I knew the words by heart and had listened to all the tapes from the other times I'd worked on it. But this time, it was almost like I'd never heard it before. Very strange.

And at the end. There was silence. For about 5 seconds you could hear a pin drop.

And then ... there it was.

Applause.

Lots of it. For maybe a minute. A few little cheers too.  And I had heard none of it.

Stanislavsky says that when an actor delivers a good performance s/he usually won't remember much in detail, only a general feeling of "rightness." I had heard actors say that very emotional roles can create an "out of body" experience -- an altered consciousness akin to being on drugs -- but this took the cake!

And it frightened me a little.

I was glad that I did good work, that I had finally brought the piece to where it needed to go. But how was this possible? How did I space out on a full minute of applause?

The strong emotion of the piece probably had a lot to do with it, as well as my anxiety over having worked on it fruitlessly for so long. But lurking underneath all that were, I realized, very deep, rancid feelings of unworthiness: I did not deserve applause, appreciation, kindness, warmth, and so I could not receive it; I could not even perceive it.

In the New Age world, much is made of the "Law of Attraction": that you get what you focus on. But even if you don't believe New Age hocus-pocus about mystically attracting to ourselves whatever is in our minds (I sort of do, by the way, but that is for another essay), here was proof positive that at the very least our thoughts can effectively filter our realities to be what we expect them to be.

It is daunting and humbling to think that our perceptions are so fragile, but they are -- and if you show me someone who thinks they aren't, I will show you someone who is in powerful denial.

In Signs of Intelligent Life, Lily Tomlin says, "Reality is nothing but a collective hunch."

And I like that definition, because it allows each of us to have our own realities (which, in my case, was one where I was unappreciated), but also begs us to open our reality, be flexible to the perceptions of others.

Now, in this case, I had a tape recording, which offered pretty irrefutable proof that my perceptions were off. Stuff on video or in writing is equally valuable for this, but even in those cases, there can be differences in perception -- or in the meaning of what is perceived, since two people might agree on the facts of an event but assign completely different meanings and motives. And the assignment of meaning and motive will generally come from our underlying belief system, whether we are aware of it or not.

So awareness is key.

In this particular case, I did not realize how strong my feelings of unworthiness were. But by learning irrefutably how they had affected my perception, I began look for when and how they were coming into play, to constantly question whether or not my perceptions were valid.

Now, this can leave one feeling out-to-sea -- because even a disheartening view of one's self and the world is "safer" than an uncertain one (which is probably why we are often unwilling to challenge our belief systems). But in the end, it has served me well.

I've come to look more squarely and honestly at what really happened in experiences that seemed to support my negative feelings. And I have been very lucky to find friends who have helped me in this, who will tell me their perceptions honestly regardless of what they think I want to hear.

And while, often enough, I will perceive rejection or lack of appreciation when it isn't there, other times it will be there (heck, even paranoids have enemies!), but my friends help me put that in perspective too. And I do my best to return the favor to them.

Most important, though, is to retain a measure of self-doubt, and pepper it with optimism; try to focus on those encounters and experiences that are more encouraging, give less weight to the other stuff (but be careful not to ignore it altogether).

And always, always be open and flexible to new versions of reality. It is not the easiest or "safest" way to live, but it can prove the most rewarding.

Stormy Thoughts

Last Wednesday, Halloween, was my birthday.

And for the first time ... possibly ever ... I spent it alone.

Partly this was due to the ravages of Hurricane Sandy which, although it left my and my family's neighborhood's intact, wrought devastation on the city such as I have not seen since 9-11. And partly this was due to the ravages 2012 had wrought upon my personal life, which conflated with my feelings about the storm into a deep malaise.

I spent much of the time ill in bed, unable to offer much more to the cause than donations. I tend to believe that money is the gift of last resort. But when that is all one has to give, then that is what one must give.

Stories trickled in about many friends, who did not fare so well... houses damaged, a dancer and her husband lost their car, which is their livelihood, so we are raising funds to get her a new one. The devastation is heartbreaking....

In some ways it feels worse than 9-11. As shellshocked as we were on that day, the city went back to normal as quickly as it could. (And just to drive the point home, HBO went and aired Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close this weekend... and like a fool I went and watched it.)

There is of course no comparison to the staggering loss of life, and of the Towers themselves, and the horrifying suddenness of an attack on American soil ... but the city itself was not paralyzed beyond the day. The subways continued even through the tunnels next to the site... you could smell the smoke, and people would be in tears, but we continued.

The devastation of Sandy will linger for a very long time. The shores of the East River have never overflowed in all of the City's history. There was no subway for days and days ... People waited on lines for hours for $30 of gas, a scene the city hasn't known since the 1970s.

So. It's a mess.

And here I've been in my fully powered, heated, structurally sound apartment and the worst I suffered was no internet for a few hours. So, yeah I've had some survivor guilt going on...

And a whole lot of navel-gazing.

This year has been a watershed for me... some long friendships have ended, where I had felt unsatisfied for many years but let it slide. I was unceremoniously ejected from my creative home for over seven years by someone I had held to be a dear friend and trusted colleague.

But now I am working with more and varied dance artists, and finally got my ACE and AFAA group fitness instructor certifications.

I have expanded my horizons in theater and improv (developing a passion for musical improv), and fulfilled my lifelong dream of creating and touring my own solo show. I am feeling better about myself as a person and an artist than I ever have in my life.

And as to the friendships.... well... yeah, it still really hurts and probably will for a long time. These connections were deep and held special value for me, so part of the trauma was in realizing that the other person did not value them similarly (or their valuing was exploitative of me).

So on the one hand it's a blow to the ego to realize that *gasp* I was wrong about someone... But, on the other, I realize the relationship simply ran its course. It is natural for one's needs in friendship to change (hopefully evolve) and those relationships that are not strong enough accommodate the development ... simply fall away.

A friend who has been helping me through these vicissitudes wrote:  "You are a force to be reckoned with. This limits your relationship options to those who burn with fire and insist on clarity, both intellectual and moral. It's a blessing and a curse to you and those close to you. I like it."

And it's true: Honesty and clarity are very important to me. I need friends who can accept it from me, and who are not afraid to dole it out to me when I become muddled, as we all do.

I once read that maturity is not a process of becoming more perfect; rather it is a process of becoming more one's Self. And part of becoming one's Self is developing the strength and courage to see that Self in all its variegated, sometimes unseemly forms, and nourish it and prune it and bear the discomfort of both -- but most of all, love it.

Acceptance of True Self is probably my biggest challenge; it has taken me decades to even figure out what this means. My current understanding of it is too complicated for me to delve into here, but let it suffice to say that it has a lot to do with coming to understand what is truly, deeply important to me; what pulls me and compels me, sometimes against my own ego/will ... these are the guide posts to True Self.

My ego would love to be liked by everyone and to have life be smooth and superficially rewarding. But my True Self knows that I am a person of passion and depth -- that my creative projects are difficult and often painful, and socially I am just plain not everyone's cup of tea. And neither is everyone my cup of tea. But those who are... those are the relationships that nourish me; and that is what is important.

Thoughts on Emotion: Processing, Processing....

"I'll give you something to cry about!!!"

A young mother slaps her crying toddler on a subway; the kid shrieks even louder. In another car, a mom continues chatting with her friend while her own child wails.

In both cars, onlookers have a variety of reactions: Horror, impatience, resentment, resignation. In the second car a woman makes faces to amuse the bawling child. But really, no one knows quite what to do.

And that is the problem with emotion -- whether we experience it in the form of a screaming baby, or in the writhing tensions of our own bodies as life throws events and experiences at us that confound and flummox us -- we just don't quite know how to handle it... because most of us never learn how.

Growing up a sensitive child in a nuclear family, I was too soon aware of the profound effect my emotional states had on my parents. If I cried, threw a tantrum, was unreasonable or contradictory  ... then I was a Bad Girl. Or my parents were Bad Parents (the worse option, I felt). Or in other cases, a well-placed tear was a way to get attention and affection. And explosions of laughter could do the same -- or the reverse.

In other words, my family was pretty typical: Emotion provoked reaction, for good or ill; it wasn't an expression for its own sake, but rather carried a volatile meaning to my parents or other adults that told them  not only whether whether I was "good" or bad, but whether they were "good" or "bad." This is a huge burden to place on a kid, yet adults blithely do it consistently and persistently ... because they don't know how to do otherwise.

And children learn from this that emotion is a means to an end, a way to get a reaction in others. Ironically,  this use of emotion to extract emotion from others -- by expressing or suppressing it in just the right way at the right time for the right adult -- diminishes the child's ability to allow emotion to do its necessary internal processing. Worse, the attention and control of others becomes an ersatz substitute for that internal processing -- a lot of storm and drama but with no useful effect.

It becomes like eating junk food: You go through the motions of eating, your mouth is stuffed, your belly feels full (at least in the short term), but you are not nourished and end up starving to death.

Is it any wonder that emotion and any expression thereof is viewed with grudging tolerance, if not outright disdain?

So what purpose, then, does emotion have?

Well... this is my theory:

I believe emotion is an indicator of our sense of life force q'i or prana or kundalini or whatever you want to call it.

It can be compared to a flow of energy/vitality, and when it is flowing smoothly and without obstruction, then we feel safe, wanted, loved, of value, and have a sense that our natural expression is accepted by the world around us. Conversely, when we feel safe, wanted, loved, etc. then the energy flows smoothly and creates positive emotion. (The former method is employed by spiritual practices -- get your energy flowing and positive experience will follow; the latter, ideally, in child rearing practices -- protect, care for your child and s/he will feel loved.)

Negative emotion is the blockage of that energy, and strong negative emotion is an attempt to restore the flow by quite literally blasting out the blocks.

I read once that any emotion, fully and honestly experienced, will always return to love (i.e. positive emotion). So if something upsets me, I can usually find something in myself -- some belief I have about the world, myself, etc. that says, "You will never be happy/have what you want/etc. because you are/aren't/have/don't have such-and-such..." that is causing me to have the negative emotion.

Now, because these processes operate at psychical levels that are far deeper than intellect or will, simply isolating the limiting belief is not enough. You need some serious force to blast it away -- or melt it down.

I particularly like the metaphor of melting -- of emotion being an intense heat that helps us reform our psyches to grow into what we need to be, what we are meant to be.

Think of it like this:  Imagine the psyche as a portal through which this energy is flowing. In its initial state, it is small and connected strongly to the beings supporting its existence (i.e. the parents), it is open and flowing ... until it isn't. It gets hungry or cranky or it's not being soothed enough or it's being discomfited in any number of ways.  Its world is quite literally falling apart; it is in pain and for all it knows will be in pain forever.

The child is in a primitive agony, what pediatric psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott called a state of "unthinkable anxiety" -- a dread of annihilation.

In response to this state it writhes and screams and cries. Now, yes, I agree that a tantrum is a method of communication geared towards getting a caretaker's attention, and therefore the crying can be seen as evolution's way of guaranteeing survival. But I believe it is more than that...

Tears are to the injured psyche what bleeding is to the injured body.

In a physical injury, blood rushes to the wound and in doing so it cleanses and brings clotting factors that allow the wound to heal.

In a psychical injury -- where a young psyche encounters circumstances that tear at its grasp of self and world -- the psyche bleeds, and in doing so brings healing factors to the wound.

Imagine the psyche, and in particular the ego (the sense of self that knows itself to be itself -- say that three times fast), as a portal-like physical construct composed of beliefs about self and world. As it goes through life experience, it must needs encounter circumstances that confound, contradict or altogether violate those beliefs.

At each such encounter, a "tearing" occurs; the ego construct begins to collapse, indeed a kind of death is experienced as the psyche cracks apart, and so a great force of life energy is needed first to keep the portal open, and second to repair and expand the ego so that it can accommodate the "new" world it has experienced. And the process by which this happens is a tantrum.

So really the parent's role in a tantrum is to do nothing more than simply contain it; to let the child know that its expression is not destructive, that in fact it is very natural, and that it will resolve itself if it is merely borne through, and that s/he will be loved unconditionally throughout.

If the child comes to believe that this expression is destructive, however (as many of us have), then s/he will try to gain control over it and, in doing so, numb the pain of the body -- which is a short-term solution to the pain which ultimately and unfortunately causes greater and more untenable pain in both psyche and body.

Paraplegic yoga teacher Matthew Sanford eloquently describes how this process metes out with his young son (segment starts at 26:05 of this interview in On Being), and the consequence of not allowing pain to be felt and expressed:

There is a reason why when my son -- he's six -- is  crying, he needs a hug. It's not just that he needs my love, he needs boundary around his experience. He needs to know that the pain is contained, and can be housed. And it won't be limiting his whole being. He gets a hug and he drops into his body.

And when you drop into your body, paradoxically, typically pain gets less. Pain gets more intense ... [when you're afraid and pull out of your body] .. it really denies freedom. And it's a great short-term strategy. That's what I did as a thirteen-year-old [in the wake of my accident]. I pulled out of my body to get it, but that's a short-term strategy and a lot of the process of my life is ... embodying again and surrounding what's going on, so I can be part of the world. 

If the child is not made to feel safe in the trauma of this experience, if s/he is not allowed to "drop into [his/her] body," then not only does the necessary process of healing, growing and transforming not occur, the unprocessed experience remains in the body. Rather than allowing the psyche to transform to accommodate the experience, the experience and accompanying emotion gets shunted off into the unconscious, leaving the psyche worse than its initial immature state: Not only has it not grown, it has learned to fear the very pain that makes growth possible.

To a psyche in this state (which, to greater and lesser degrees is pretty much everyone in our culture), emotion becomes very dangerous indeed.   As we learn to conform socially, we are taught to further suppress emotion, and indeed may be shamed and rejected for its expression -- further compounding the damage done in childhood.

But no matter how much we have learned to suppress, control and deny our expression, rest assured: Each of us has a full complement of these "shunted off " pieces of unprocessed emotional experience, which can emerge, indeed forcefully erupt, when triggered by experiences that resemble or resonate with the initial experience. And then watch out!

Very often, when these unprocessed complexes emerge, they overtake the psyche and leave one feeling quite helpless. Worse, the complex is in whatever level of maturity the psyche was in at the time it was created. Have you ever wondered why an otherwise rational, mature, even impressive adult can suddenly become a squalling 5-year-old if, for example, someone cuts in front of them in line? Well, an unprocessed complex is the reason.

Now, as awful and humiliating as it can be to be held in the throes of a complex, we can still be good parents to ourselves and give ourselves the containment that had not been available in our formative years.

Here is my prescription:

If something happens that drives you looney, for whatever reason -- and do not judge, try to rationalize, justify, or even figure out the reason -- just let it out.  Try, of course, to create a safe space for this. If you are in mixed company, or in a situation where expression could cause undue damage, try to keep the feeling in stasis until you can seclude yourself. But once you are safe, just let it rip.

And when I say rip, I mean RIP.

Wail, scream, cry, punch a pillow (I am a big fan of pillow-bashing) -- but most of all trust that as bad as the pain may be, and as ridiculous as you may feel in letting yourself revert to your two-year-old self, if you let it do its thing, you will emerge safely on the other side.

I liken it to the way a pilot brings a plane out of a stall.

When a plane goes into a stall, it starts to nose-down and the pilot loses control. You would think that bringing the nose up would be the right thing to do; but it isn't. As aviation legend Lincoln Beachy learned, if you push the nose down into the stall, your wings will gather enough lift to recover.

And so it is with the complex-driven tantrum: If you dive straight into it, look squarely into the eye of whatever has got you by the short-and-curlies, and bawl/scream/grieve your face off -- in essence, if you let yourself die a little -- you will get through it, and you will grow.

So, how do you know that the tantrum did the trick? Usually, I find that whatever had triggered the episode will not bother me as much -- or at all.

A good example of this happened in my mid-20s.

I had quit my job to pursue theater as my parents had agreed to let me move back in with them for a few years. One night I came home very late from a show and found my mother had done something that upset me terribly. I don't recall what it was, but whatever it was triggered something HUGE in me. (As Paul Reiser quips: "Want to know why your parents are so good at pushing your buttons? It's because they installed them!")

I wanted to go absolutely ballistic at her, but she was sleeping -- and I knew enough by that point to realize that beating up on another person, even the person whom I held responsible for the injury, would resolve nothing.

So I took a moment, stuffed my face in a pillow (so as not to wake anyone) and screamed and cried. My body wrenched and writhed and I found myself biting the pillow... there was something about biting that was important here. Well, I didn't want to destroy the pillow, so I grabbed the next best thing: a 2-week-old copy of the NY Times Magazine -- something no one would miss.

And I shredded it with my teeth!

Yes, I really did that.

There I was... a mature, sensible 25-year-old, ripping, gnashing, tearing saliva-soaked pages with bestial fury. Tears poured down my face as I crumpled fistsfuls of slick tooth-made confetti, mashing them into the living room rug.  A long breath shuddered into me; I gurgled out a few more sobs ... until the sobs turned into laughs. And I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was I was so upset about.

My mind was completely blank for what seemed like several minutes. I had to reach around, fumbling through my thoughts as I was at that moment fumbling through the confetti, trying to clean up the mess. And when I finally remembered what had moments before been my mother's terrible-horrible-unforgivable act ... I laughed again. "That is what upset me?? Damn...."

And the storm was over. I scooped up the mess, chuckling to myself ... how silly, small things can loom so large when powered by the grief of a tormented inner-child. Having been given her due, the child was calm, contained, cared for and happy. And my mothers momentous offense had returned to life-size.

It was some oversight ... knowing her, she probably meant to do well by me in doing what she did, but guessed wrong as so many parents do. But I can't say for sure.

Within moments, it was forgotten -- processed and integrated -- to this day, I can't tell you what it was.

Thoughts on Emotion: Seeds of Passion

Last week I had the pleasure of dancing to Dim All the Lights for Layla Mary's Donna Summer Tribute Show.

A child of the 70s, I danced at the altar of her music. I clearly remember the peach-and-neon-scripted Casablanca sticker of her single 45 "Spring Affair" (B Side "Winter Melody") which rarely left our turntable until it was usurped by her mega-chart-topping album Bad Girls.

"Um... you do girls know what that song is about?" my mother tentativley asked one sweltering afternoon while my sister and I jammed relentlessly to the whistle rhythm of the title track. She held up the album cover, featuring lady Donna herself in a negligé chatting up a nightstick weilding cop.

"Sure!" we chirped, "It's about prostitutes!" Of course we had no real idea what a prostitute was other than that it involved wearing really sexy clothing.

I suppose this convinced my mother that we were clueless enough to let us keep listening.

But "Bad Girls" wasn't even my favorite track, anyway. When it came to heart-slamming, make-you-wanna-dance disco, there was no substitute for "Hot Stuff."  And for joyful, soul-stirring elation, there was "Dim All the Lights."

"It sounds like she's underwater!" carped my sister when Donna's echoey voice throbbed, "Do it tonight... you know the moments are right..." (And even then that syntactical liberty bothered me, but what the hell, I figured... conjugational accuracy be damned!) My nine-year-old body would writhe down into my most super-sexy dance moves ... "Turn my brown body white..." (OK, I'd think, gotta get a better tan for that line to work...)

And as I'd dance, I'd imagine an enthralled audience ... dozens --  no hundreds -- of people riveted by my powerful embodiment of this music, an absolute union of body, soul and sound. Funny thing is... I never thought about applause -- only the idea of transmitting through movement what the music meant to me.

And, yeah, it was just a disco song. But it brought so much out of me... love, joy, power, sensuality, in short a sense of True Self that I experienced in so little else (this was especially true as I was a pretty depressed kid).

So.... here I was, decades later, dancing to that very song for a cheerfully riveted crowd and I couldn't help noticing the irony:  As a child I had danced this fantasy version of my adult self countless times, yet here I was, now an adult, living the fantasy -- and only able to think of myself as a child.

My first thought was:  Well, don't we just always want to be something we aren't?!

But the opposite was true:  My dance that night was the fruition of the seed planted in that childhood fantasy.

And because that fantasy held a kernel of True Self -- to that experience, those actions, those expressions that brought me deepest, purest joy -- it lived within me all these years and relentlessly (and sometimes painfully) compelled me to live the life I now have, where dance and theater are so essential to who I am that I would shrivel and die if I were denied their expression.

It has become increasingly important to me to become attuned to those feelings of joy, and often to reach back into my earliest childhood memories -- before the time that I started worrying what people thought of me and if my choices were good enough to make me worthy of love -- for those kernels of Who I Really Am.

Those seeds of passion are still waiting, and bit by bit I am dusting them off, warming them, planting and nourishing them because there is nothing more important than this, and no more important time than now.

And I know:  the moments are right.

Thoughts On Emotion: Jealousy, Envy & Sarah Silverman

"God, Carol, you are so jealous!!!"

It's the mid-90s and my friend Jennifer has been gushing about Sarah Silverman's totally awesome set at the Comic Strip the night before. Jen and I are watching TV and we've flipped by Sarah's fleeting image in an episode of Larry Sanders. I kept flipping, much to Jennifer's dismay.

"Hey!" she squealed, "I wanted to watch that!" I protested that she'd told me Garry Shandling "looked weird" and that there were better things to watch (though there actually weren't). But she was right... I didn't want to watch because I couldn't bear to look at Sarah.

"You have to understand, Sarah has one thing that you will never have..."

Now it's the late 90s and Lucien Hold (RIP) -- the legendary booker and manager of The Comic Strip who had helped launch Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock, and multitudes of other comedic luminaries -- is peering steadily at me after my mediocre set.

I feel a sickening tremble through my legs ... I just know his next words will be "she's funny and you're not" and I can't bear to hear them.

By that point, I've known Sarah for nearly a decade and watched her slowly climb to success while my own performing career had languished in ambivalence, ineptitude, and regret. I think of Marc Maron's words, "They say it takes 10 years to make it... funny, that's the exact length of time it takes to become a bitter, self-loathing failure." (Funny that he is now enjoying unique success with WTF... but that's a topic for another post...)

I had heard of Sarah a few months before actually meeting her. I had started comedy in February 1989 and had the dubious distinction of being "the youngest female comic in New York" -- which some emcees used as my introduction, partly to mock me because I had no other notable credit.

Then Sarah showed up, also an NYU student and a full 13-months-and-one-day younger than me ... and light-years funnier. We made passing hellos at the various clubs but never talked much until the evening after an NYU comedy contest where she was clearly the funniest thing on the stage.

I found her brooding in the hall of Loeb Student Center. "But... didn't you win?" I asked.

"No," she pouted, "They disqualified me because I'm not a student right now."

I saw her most frequently at the now defunct Boston Comedy Club, where she emceed and was even then beginning to hone her sexy-gross persona. She made jokes about her dentist talking to her with her mouth open ... even while giving him a blow job. She mocked her body, its smells, sounds and physical vagaries.

"I'm a really hairy person...?" one bit went, in her signature questiony up-talk ... "Like one day, I was eating...? And I realized there was a hair ...? in my plate..? And I realized it was still attached...? to my arm..???"

Laughter, laughter. And I laughed too, even as my face burned in jealousy. Or was it envy?

You see there is a difference between envy and jealousy.

Envy is begrudging covetousness... when someone has or has achieved something you want, and you loathe and resent them for it... and it is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Jealousy has to do with possessiveness and is a favorite emotion of the "jealous god" Yaweh who demands his followers worship no other god, etc. etc.

But there is an overlap ... in rivalry. Jealousy falls where we feel that another has gotten what should have gone to us ... as though she and I were equals and a capricious god had unfairly rewarded her with success while I fitfully spun my wheels.

Of course this was ridiculous.

Yes, we had a few things in common -- young, sort-of-sexy female, NYU students who were drawn to stagelight and laughter -- but the similarity ended there, a fact which Lucien made abundantly clear.

In those few moments, all of this shot through my mind as I prepared myself for the rest of Lucien's sentence... what, indeed, was it that she had that I didn't??

"She," he began, clearing his throat, "is a perpetual child. She is pretty and sexy and the men like that, but because she can be childlike, the women aren't threatened by it. So everyone likes her. She can make jokes about farting and, because of this persona, it's softened and funny.

"You, on the other hand ... well, you're not that. You have something too, you're sexy too, but it's intimidating, you have to be careful about alienating the audience. Once the women hate you, you're done..." (Truer words were never spoken, by the way.) He continued: "You don't know who you are up there. You have presence, but it's not focused. Keep at it though."

I thanked him, still shaking a little, but comforted by his feedback. It was not what my ego wanted to hear, but I knew he was absolutely right. I hung out at the Strip for maybe an hour after... I don't know, it was still a blur ... and there was Sarah.

It had been a few years since I'd seen her, but she recognized me and said hi and asked how I was doing. I told her I'd technically quit comedy a few years before and had joined a theater company, though I did a few minutes at the pre-show earlier in the evening. I told her I'd enjoyed her work on Larry Sanders and Saturday Night Live ...

"Why did you leave SNL, anyway?"

"Ummm... because they fired me..??"

My jaw dropped. I had no idea... of course now it is somewhat legend that she was released callously via a fax to her manager, but I had always imagined she'd left them for greener pastures. "I'm so sorry!" I spluttered..

"Oh, it's OK," she sighed, "It's a lousy place to work. Especially for women. They were awful to me. Like anything I wrote that was good they wouldn't let me do, and then they kept giving me bits that weren't right for me. I'm better off."

I still stared at her, dumbfounded. All those years of searing envy pooled miserably at my feet. What an ass I had been.

"God," I mumbled, "I had no idea." She shrugged in such perfect matter-of-fact humility.  Every angry, resentful impulse I'd felt now begged for absolution.

I couldn't stop myself from blurting out: "I ... I have to tell you ... for so many years, it's been so hard for me. I mean, I've been so jealous of you. It's stupid, I know ... but you're doing so well, and I'm just... well, I'm nowhere."

She regarded me calmly for a measured moment and said:

"But, Carol ... you finished college."

I was shocked ... at a complete loss for words (which is rare, as those of you who know me are well aware).

Of all the things she could have done or said ... she said that. She could have brushed me off, mocked me for my impromptu confession, made light of it, walked away... any of a googleplex of typical comedian reactions.

But she chose to say that.

It had never occurred to me that she had dropped out. Yes, I recalled what she'd said at Loeb after the comedy contest, but it didn't make a dent in me. Her problems weren't real to me; in many ways, she wasn't real to me -- she was the walking embodiment of everything I could never be, but felt I should be able to be.

I had never thought about her struggles, her disappointments, her regrets. And as if that incredibly compassionate sentence weren't enough to make me see a nimbus form around her head, she said:

"I mean, yeah, I'm doing OK in comedy now. But back then, I mean, what else was there for me to do?"

I think we may have chatted a bit after that, but I don't remember. I was so overwhelmed -- humbled, really -- by her kindness. "Holy crap," I thought, "This is a deeply good human being ... and she's funny. What a fucking amazing combination!"

And I felt an appreciation for what had been her very unique path.

And in that moment I began to sense that my own path would be unique and rewarding, even if it seemed pretty fucking opaque at that moment. (Indeed, if you had told me then that my creative path would involve bellydancing in Japan and Taiwan I would have asked what drugs you were on -- and I would have asked you to share!!)

I had spent so much energy looking (or not wanting to look) at what she was doing, envying what seemed to be her stellar path, that I hardly cast an eye to my own footfalls. No wonder I was stumbling.

Even then, I began to sense I would never really be a stand-up comic. I could grab a mic and make people laugh (sometimes), but it was not where my heart was. The problem was I didn't know what my heart was looking for .. because I didn't know my heart.

Seething with so much anger, resentment, jealousy, envy -- I could barely admit to myself that I was feeling these things because I was ashamed of it. But by coming clean to her, I stopped denying them. I admitted who I was, ugly as it was ... and she didn't shame me for it, and so I didn't either.

I started to feel... whole. And so the negative part of those feelings dissipated in an instant and gave me a glimpse of who I was -- good and bad -- and who I might become.

So that was my first step:  Just as she had followed her nose and enjoyed her opportunities as they arose, I realized that I should do the same:  Don't be fixated on being or becoming a particular thing ... just take on what presents itself to me and see whether or not I enjoy it. If I enjoy it, then keep on keeping on. If not, then go on to the next thing.

And most importantly, I had to learn to show myself the kind of compassion she had shown me, be patient, take things step by step -- let things come to me, and appreciate all of it, regardless of whether it looks like what I think I want.

And always, always, lead with my heart.

Thoughts On Emotion: Shame, Freedom and Dancing Bears

"Omigod! I just took the best picnic video ever!"

It's Saturday afternoon around 5pm and my dance partner Jaklina and I are cooling our heels with some of her friends in Central Park's Sheep Meadow. Knowing that we are bellydancers one of the hosts gave us coined hipscarves while we shook our hips to the music coming out of the boombox.

And even though we were pretty exhausted from the Dance Parade earlier that day, still in full makeup and lugging our heavy costumes around -- hers in wheeled luggage and mine in an enormous backpack -- our dancer's bodies could not resist the lure of a pulsing beat. I placed a beer bottle on my head and drew some "oohhhss" with a choo-choo shimmy-layered figure eight, and a quick knee-drop and undulating rise (i.e. drop to a more-or-less graceful squat quickly so it looks like the object will fly off your head, then start undulating and pull up like a snake).

As I did this, I noticed a girl in a black dress, dark hair and sort-of-Goth makeup videoing me. She cooed and asked if I was a dancer. I said I was and that we had just returned from the parade. She asked if she could video us again. I called Jackie over and we did a short synchronized routine for her. She thanked us and walked away.

We went to talk to one of the hosts. Several minutes later, half-Goth Girl slithers up behind him, wrapping her hand around his waist but doesn't join in the conversation. When he steps away, she says to me, "You know, your backpack is SO AWESOME! Could I video you dancing with it on?"

My skin crawled.

"Um... no, sorry. It's really heavy and I'd rather just let it be." I turned away quickly to talk to someone else and hGG disappeared.

When she left I turned to Jackie.

"Do you know what the deal with her is?"

"No... I've never met her. I don't even know who she is friends with here."

"OK. Because she just really creeped me out."

"Yeah, I know... that thing with the backpack was really weird...."

What on earth had she really wanted? What had all that videoing been about in the first place? And the gushing praise....

It put me in mind of an episode from The Sopranos -- Season 1, Episode 10, "A Hit is a Hit" -- where in therapy Tony recounts a golf outing with his doctor neighbor and his top-flight pals. He describes his youthful mockery of Jimmy Smash, a friend with a cleft palate:

Every time he'd open his mouth, we'd piss ourselves laughing. But Jimmy didn't mind because he got to hang out with us, you know, popular crew. Although we only called him when we were bored. ..We'd say, 'Hey Jimmy, sing "Mack the Knife."' And because he wanted to hang out with us, he'd belt it right out. .. And when the laughs got old, we stopped calling him. It wasn't until years later I found out that the poor prick was going home every night and crying himself to sleep. ...  

When I found out... I felt bad. But I never really understood what he felt ... to be used, you know, for somebody else's amusement, like a fucking dancing bear, till I played golf with those guys.

So I was half-Goth Girl's dancing bear, it seems.

Perhaps she is the sort who trolls social situations, luring people into doing embarrassing or compromising acts which she can capture on video and do God-knows-what with. And she is hardly alone. One need only watch Tosh.O for ten seconds (or its sad precursor America's Funniest Home Videos) for confirmation that this is our culture's norm:  We use each other for sport -- and all too often offer ourselves up for use. But why?

Attention is part of it, because attention looks and can feel an awful lot like love, even when its source is the exact opposite.

When we love a thing, we give it our full attention, we are pulled into it -- sometimes in spite of ourselves -- and can't help but want to know it, to be with it, to have it as part of our lives. This feeling of loving attention is a vital nourishment to a growing psyche; in it, we see ourselves reflected back and begin to develop a feeling of being worthy and wanted merely for being ourselves.

But if the attention is narcissistic (i.e. where the person giving the attention merely sees a part of him/herself in the other, and therefore does not really see the other person at all -- in other words, the exact opposite of love), and is doled out by inept, shallow or emotionally unavailable adults -- then desperate confusion can occur.

Not long ago, a frustrated new-parent friend commented that things were "much better now that the baby is finally old enough to start doing things that are genuinely cute, so it is much less about just caring for his needs."

I was aghast.

This is not to say parents should find every burp their little ones exude to be heartbreakingly adorable. Parenting is yucky and difficult (and although I am not one, I have the testimony of many parents that this is true) and it is hard to fault parents for craving some reward in the form of cuteness.

But I can't help but worry that, even as much as my friends love their kid, they -- like all of us -- have been reared in a culture where we are given unreasonable expectations of what it is to be a parent. And part of this expectation involves wanting entertainment value from children, which can't help but confuse a kid's perception of being loved and valued.

Can we really be surprised that we have become a reality-TV-besotted society of dancing bears and their predatory spectators.

Knowing too well my own bearish needs for attention, I tend to be hyper-vigilant for predators; but I also try to be aware of whether I am seeking attention or just having fun and expressing myself, and not to let myself be shamed out of the latter.

When a child's craving for attention is shamed enough, he or she learns to repress it. But like any repressed need or emotion, the psyche will still require an experience of attention. And so the predatory urge begins... As a child, I noticed several peers who did this -- my own sister chief among them -- who would sense in another any "childish" need for attention, then dole a mockery of "attention" to their victim.

If the victim was especially lonely or had low self-esteem (a la Jimmy Smash), he/she would lavish in the praise, only to be led down a demeaning path and dropped precipitously by his/her "admirers."

A devastating experience.

And in this way even I began to suppress myself and was even tempted to follow the predatory impulse. But I've never enjoyed the humiliation of another; it has never given me the sense of power and superiority that it seems to give others. I've found I would much rather express myself as I am and deal with the occasional raised eyebrow -- childish though I may be at times -- than to turn on the part of myself that likes to get down and boogie at a picnic.

And it seemed on Saturday that I was in the majority as others started dancing too.

Half-Goth-Girl slunk her way to a picnic blanket far from the boom box and did not emerge again.