November 22, 1963 -- Processing Tragedy

When I was a kid, I used to joke about where I was the first time the adults in my life launched into their "Where Were You" stories about JFK.

Then we had the blackout of 1977 -- and the moment of looking up to see all of the bulbs in the ceiling lamp fade to brown then go out etched itself in my mind.

A blown fuse? No... it wouldn't have dimmed out that way.

My sister and I wandered to the kitchen, shocked to see everything pitch dark -- and all the lights in the neighborhood too.

My father realized it was a blackout, lit up our kerosene lamp, and told us his memory of the blackout of  November 9, 1965 (also his 28th birthday) -- walking down Fourth Avenue where each street light blinked off in sequence, like falling dominoes. Then the confusion, some panic, and then calm upon realizing what had happened and what to do about it (i.e. walk home under the full moon; no biggie ... things were pretty chill in 1965, apparently).

And then came 9-11.

I'd awakened to the radio, jumped in the shower and emerged at 8:50am to find the NPR signal had dropped out.  I shrugged and continued on to work.

When I arrived a security guard told me a plane flew into the World Trade Center. "Poor plane," I said, figuring it was a small craft, like the B-25 that crashed into the Empire State Building in 1945, killing some people but leaving the building intact.

Then came the hysteria in the office when it sunk in; people worried for their friends and family downtown, then seeing the hole in the North Tower from our window in midtown, rushing back and forth from the window to the computer for any update ... then the petrifying news -- a tower had fallen.

And then the second tower.

For weeks Manhattan stunk of the burn, debris were found throughout the five boroughs, and every single conversation one could hear -- walking down the street, in offices, restaurants, bars -- was about that event, as we gradually wrapped our collective mind around the incomprehensible.

Tragedy rips us from our known moorings, sending us floating until we can tether down again.

It is generally believed that strong emotion aids memory, etching those highly charged events most potently in our minds -- and there is further evidence that pain is recorded more vividly than pleasure.

I am wondering if this may be because, unlike pleasure, pain is a sudden tearing of the fabric of our reality, which we must then work to process, and so our own effort infuses the memory.

And this processing can take years, decades -- during which each telling of the story, each meshing the personal experience with the collective one, is yet another stitch to bind and ultimately heal the wound.

So let's keep talking, sharing our stories, hearing those of others -- and healing together. Until the next time.....

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.

9-11

I've been debating whether of not to weigh in on the 9-11 thing.... The only other post I've done on this was last year, about the prescient dream I had a few days before the event.

Anyway.

 Yes, I was in the city that day. Yes, I saw the towers, even from our office window in midtown, I will never forget the giant hole -- like the eye of Jupiter -- in Two World Trade.

 I am still haunted by the fact that I had interviewed for a job in One World Trade the year before, and was one of two final candidates. Yet, even though I recall the stench and dust and burned paper wafting even into Brooklyn, part of me feels removed from the event ... it was too large for me to grasp then, and still is now. 

In subsequent years, I was horrified to see this event used and abused by those who in other contexts loath New York and all it stands for.

These events can't be contained in simplistic definitions; we can only stand in awe of them, grieve for the loss they hand us, and build anew (and hopefully better) upon the ruin.

Dreaming of 9-11 -- BEFORE the Event

Ten years ago I had the following dream:  Terrorists have blown a huge hole in my office/apartment building; an apocalypse has hit Manhattan, which is covered in a layer of dust. Power is down and I must confront the terrorists alone. 

What is weird about this is that I had the dream on September 6, 2001. What is stranger still is that I wrote the dream down on a scrap of paper which I had misplaced until September 10th. And so, that Monday night, I stayed late in my office typing it up.

In his Sense of Being Stared At, Rupert Sheldrake relates several similar experiences -- during the five days before the attacks, Manhattanites had prescient dreams or other premonitions, most involving planes, buildings  and/or terrorists. And in most cases these dreams were not typical of the dreamer.

"Oh, I bet New Yorkers have nightmares about dust and skyscrapers all the time!" scoffed my hyper-rational cousin. And they may -- but I don't. And I know this because I have been writing down my dreams since 1996. 

A quick word search reveals that this was the only dream of its kind that I have had in the past 15 years, which puts it out of the realm of statistical coincidence and squarely into The Twilight Zone.

In his book, Sheldrake describes "a kind of collective unconscious that allows members of a species to draw from, and contribute to, the collective memory of the species." 

But does how could this apply to future events? 

Well... I haven't the foggiest, other than to consider more strongly that there are, indeed, more things in heaven and earth -- and perhaps those things like to reach us through our dreams.

But you tell me... Submitted for your approval is my 9/6/01 dream, complete with action movie heroics at the end. 

Oh, I am such a product of my culture....

I’m in a post-apocalyptic Manhattan – the Earth’s atmosphere is completely covered in choking dust. (There is also something about a probe that was sent into the deeper reaches of the Milky Way which will soon return bringing either information or more destruction.)  

I go into a one-room apartment in a high-rise (possibly mine), though it seems more like an office building. Scott  is sleeping on the bed. He is remarkably blasé about the state of the world. There is a lot of dust in the room as well, so he suggests that I turn on the air conditioner to clear it out. I am dubious at first, thinking that the air conditioner couldn’t possibly work because teh power is down, but it does.  

As the dust clears, I look out the window and see many office buildings with quite a few lights on. How can there be electricity? I thought there was practically no one left… Are the generators still running? I figure that I should just stop questioning and use the electricity while we still have it. 

A very attractive young man enters the apartment.. The three of us go to the lobby of the building where many other survivors are gathered. Panamanian terrorists have blasted a giant hole in the lobby and are announcing that in this “new world” they are claiming America (and hence New York and all the buildings in it) as a territory of Panama. They have not yet seen me, so I slink up a staircase to an inner balcony overlooking the atrium.  

A little ways in I find an unmade bed and a female friend crouched beside it. The terrorists announce that they are going to tear-gas us out. I realize that even though gas is everywhere it’s not affecting me. Puffed up with my apparent superhuman abilities, I go down to the lobby and tell the terrorists to get lost. They turn their weapons on us and, in true superhuman form, I telekinetically rip their weapons away from them, condense them in a ball above their heads, and then smash the ball into the left wall of the room. Then I blow the terrorists backwards, which sends them out of the building screaming.

September Concert At Karma

I had initially turned this show down because of a scheduling conflict later in the evening, but they put me in a special pre-show spot at 6:45pm. This worked out great because the tiny place was already pretty full.

The only (small) problem was that, since the space is designed for a band, they didn't realize I'd need a little more light on the floor in front of the stage. But they lifted the darkness about 30 seconds into my set.

Enjoy!