hi guys! hope your last weeks of the semester are going v lovely. i’ll be graduating soon so thats kinda spooky..but cool. my sisters the finder of things on the ground this week! ty.
brings me to my attention if anyone reading wants to send me interesting things they find around or on the ground at campus please send me them my way and ill credit you in a post!
cheers!
This ain’t his house
a man lives in my attic
I don’t know if he knows that I know that he lives in my attic
but he sure as hell knows that I know that this ain’t his house
his feet don’t hit the floorboards right
the house squeaks to let him know
he fuzzied the bristles on my toothbrush
and the cabinet doors are wide open
he lets them breathe
speakin’ something sad
Every night is a rhythm:
stomp the steps
lift the door
plump the pink
pillow in my attic—not his but mine
because this ain’t his house
though he snores like he owns it
I’ll talk to him tomorrow
i remember when i was nothing but Hope
i remember when i thought that my Hope was enough
to save the world.
when i felt that everything was to be done right.
when i had the answer to absolutely everything
and nothing could change it.
in elementary school i was always
running to be the line leader,
to tell my peers to buckle up
and wait their turns
and stand up straight
and quiet down
and then it’d all be fixed.
and i remember wanting to be president.
to solve world hunger and bring world peace,
to bring a better life.
the eyes of a child and the eyes of an idealist
are one in the same, and
both are so very needed.
my eyes grow dimmer,
my prescription weaker,
and i have cataracts on my soul, my spirit,
and i can barely see the light anymore.
the Hope, it persists nonetheless
like a echo.
it has lasted far longer than i ever thought it would.
i can even hear it now.
but it is dying, slowly and steadily, no matter how many times i resucitate it.
i now see those who i love and care for
who i worry and fear for
being told by others who will never care to know my loved ones
to buckle up
and wait their turns
and stand up straight
and quiet down
to listen up
and quickly move
and shut their mouths
and stay alert
and don’t speak up
and don’t resist
and don’t you dare.
and to refuse would be risking everything.
i fear for those risking everything.
i fear for them, and for those who will be told they’re risking everything
no matter what they do.
when do you cry for help?
when it is too late? when you’re there just in time?
where is our line leader. does such a person, such an entity, even exist.
will it ever.
Sparked curiosity…
When I started physical theatre school a year after having basically my entire spine surgically relocated, one of my classmates was quick to say, “When we study Commedia Dell’arte, there will be certain things you can’t do. You probably couldn’t do Arlecchino.”
For context, Arlecchino is a stock character known for acrobatics and over the top physicality.
I did eventually play Arlecchino. I ultimately found a character I felt more at home with, but I still did it.
To be honest, that comment pissed me off. I put that Arlecchino mask on out of pure spite. It also pisses me off when I struggle to nail a dance skill because of my back and somebody says “just don’t do that one.” Or when I go to a yoga class and somebody finds out my spine is full of metal and held together with rope, and they automatically recommend an easier class.
I want to make this very clear: when somebody with a medical condition, disability, or any other need tries to do something, the answer should never be “just don’t do it.” They should never be sent out of the room. The choice to participate in an activity is theirs, not yours.
The answer to a theatre student healing from a back surgery is not to deny them the opportunity to learn the same things as everyone else. The answer to somebody who needs an accommodation to play a character is not that they shouldn’t play that character.
Creative spaces have evolved to be exclusive. Our culture has historically included Disabled folks from public life, including the arts, so industry norms have not evolved to meet diverse needs. When we send somebody away because their bodies or minds don’t meet our standards, we are perpetuating that exclusion. We become the oppressors.
When I push back against meeting access needs in performing arts spaces, I hear a lot of “we can’t compromise our creative vision” or “it has to be this way.” But…does it really? Or is that just what’s easiest for those who hold power in the space? Just because something is doesn’t mean it has to be.
Excluding someone does not preserve creativity. To paraphrase disability activists Terry Galloway and Donna Marie Nudd, what it actually does is demonstrate that you are not or do not want to be creative enough to come up with a solution. If we can make an entire show from scratch, we can problem solve.
I am a stubborn person and I show up in a lot of spaces where people aren’t expecting someone like me, and sometimes where they don’t want me. And I won’t leave to make things easier on those who don’t have to question whether they belong in the space. I value creativity too much to throw it out like that.
Birthday Card
It was your birthday like every year
colored pencils to paper
(what knives are to skin)
you told me green was your favorite color
—you didn’t have one
I know that now
but I didn’t know that then—
so I tore up the backyard
ripped leaves from maple trees
scooped moss in mighty handfuls
fistfuls, pocketfuls
to give to you
you lied because colors don’t shine
for old shuttered eyes
closer to glaucoma than clarity
bleeding monochrome
the dull and dim
the world without harpsichord tones
on rolling hills born into richness
of flavor
of color worth witnessing
on the page and in your palms
you are running out of birthdays
