Rational Creatures

If I’m facing east on the Brown Line (and not looking down at my phone), I see the green glass building on the north side of the river next to the Westin Hotel. The building used to be called Quaker Tower, due to the Quaker company occupying many floors and having a display in the main lobby. My father sold his travel company in 2001 – he had worked in that building since 1986.

In 7th grade, my class at Hubble Middle School (where John Belushi went to high school and is now a Mariano’s) took a field trip to downtown Chicago. I grew up in Wheaton, a western suburb with the most churches per square mile and a local video store next to a Dairy Queen. On this field trip, our class got to visit the Museum of Science and Industry and watch an IMAX presentation on volcanoes. I can’t remember much about that day, but I do remember someone throwing up in the IMAX theater and leaving my favorite yellow cardigan in the bathroom stall at the museum. I loved that cardigan.

We finished the field trip on a cruise down the Chicago River. When we passed the green glass building on the north side of the river just before Clark, my teacher told me to look up at the 4th floor windows. On white pieces of paper, spread out over multiple windows, my father had written, “Hi Dana and her class. Have fun today in the city!” If this is what celebrity feels like, trust me, I was riding high. I was genuinely surprised and filled with a sense of love that I still feel every time I look up at that building, lingering too long on the 4th floor windows as I try and make that banner appear again in my mind and in doing so bring back a small joy from my childhood.

***
I didn’t have sex until I was 23. I mean, I had a few “in and out” moments with men and good old fashioned rounding of the naked bases, but not technical sex. After my blissful, creative, and safe 4 years at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York, I found myself in a studio apartment at the corner of Halsted and Cornelia, next to a now-defunct gay bar, The Manhole, known for its “backroom” and its pithy, sexual innuendo-laden marquee. “Looks like rain! Grab your raincoats, gentlemen!” My refrigerator opened out into my so-called living room, and my windows looked out onto a brick wall. It was a classic first city apartment, complete with a rat inside a bag of bread, IKEA, a dead neighbor…oh, and also where I found out I was pregnant. (more…)

My Smalls.

de·tri·tus
 noun \di-‘tri-tus\
: the pieces that are left when something breaks, falls apart, is destroyed, etc.

Yeesh. What a bummer of a definition. I have long enjoyed the word detritus. It’s a quality word. Timeless and official. A word that costs upwards of 49 cents. But here I was just looking to write a little blog post about stuff…clutter…mementos.

But…it’s all right….fine, all right….detritus.
It’s a tad too dramatic, but then again…so am I.
Fine.

I have entered a Season of Detritus.

Ha.
Oh…wait…here’s another definition:

de·tri·tus
dəˈtrīdəs/
noun
waste or debris of any kind.
flotsam and jetsam, rubble; scraps, dregs, leavings,
organic matter produced by the decomposition of organisms.

Much better. The Dregs and Leavings Part. Yes.

The Flotsam and Jetsam. Of course.

Even better – the organic matter produced by the decomposition of organisms.

That’s it. That’s what I’m talking about.

I have entered a Season of Detritus.

This is the contemplation of my Winter.

Chicago Winter: (a cursed noun) a majestic yet relentless parade of dangerous frigidity and snow that sentences one to a extended bout of house arrest and thereby forces one to encounter, on a daily basis, one’s stuff which plagues and bloats and swells the closets and nooks in one’s domicile.

I spent a lot of time looking at my crap this Winter. (more…)

Awwww, yeah.

Well, it’s been a week of experiences, hence not much writing for me lately.

Petite post today, but I wanted to keep going and let folks know what’s going on.

Wow – so radio-embolization – that was a trip.

It was kind of sold to me as easier than chemo, and to be fair, by next week, it may be- I feel much better now.

But that knocked me on my can way harder than chemo ever did.  I kept falling asleep as soon as I got home, and didn’t get enough food or water because I just kept sleeping – and then by the end of the next day, the abdominal pain and nausea hit, and I was doubled over again, unable to stand up straight when I went in for my follow up Weds.

My onco and nurse took one look at me and said “She looks dry”  “Yeah, we should admit her at least til we get her fluids up.  We’re gonna see if we can straighten out your bowels and do something about that pain, too.

I was happy to get admitted – I knew I needed to eat or drink, but I couldn’t manage it, and I was scared of what my bowels would do to me next if I did eat – dietary recommendations didn’t seem to make a difference.  There just wasn’t room for anything but swollen liver in my midsection.

Read More at View From the 21st Floor

If you’re following this blog so far, you’re probably on board with the idea that women are pretty awesome. And we are! Just like, you know, human beings in general, we are fascinating creatures of wonder and horror with the capacity for genius and love and cruelty and stupidity, all in equal measure. But . . . but. The stories we see about ourselves in the world don’t do us justice. And because of that, I think, the stories we base our lives around suffer from the same problems.

You may already be familiar with the Bechdel Test, which asks the following question about a work of fiction: Does it feature at least two named women who talk to each other about something other than a man? If you’ve heard about it before, you’ve likely heard how frequently films fail this test. This year, that included two best picture nominees (The Grand Budapest Hotel and The Imitation Game). It’s so impactful because it’s so simple. But it’s also problematic for the same reason. It’s not enough of a requirement in some cases – can’t we do better than two women who might say one line to each other about shoes? In other cases it’s too much, too simple: Is Gravity not enough of a female-centric story because Sandra Bullock is the only woman, even though she’s pretty much solo for 90% of the film?

But the Bechdel Test is not the end of the discussion, it’s the beginning. The real discussion is about women seeing their stories being told. We are so often relegated to supporting characters in a man’s journey that it feels vital and urgent to see some woman, ANY woman, having their story told.

Consuming media that passes the test can help remind you that life is not all about a Man and his Journey (gag). Here are some things I enjoy that qualify: (more…)

There is no room for self-doubt or fretting for the future in “Lookingglass Alice”. This wild and tight 90 minutes of stunts and circus won’t allow for insecurity. I have to rise to the occasion. To climb the 12-foot rolling apparatus that makes me larger than life, to leap and land, both feet magnetized to the hip creases of my partner. To press out of a headstand into a handstand in time with being hauled upwards through a tight hole in the floor by my legs. To stand straight, abs locked, elbows back, hands gripping the calves of the partner standing on my shoulders. To burst out of the darkness into the glaring stage light on stilts with all the glory and confidence of a tyrant. Eye contact. Breath. Go. Steady. Go. Courage. Go. Rise to the Occasion. Go.

I am proudly approaching the final leg of a multi-month run of this incredible collaboration of bodies and minds, and must remember these principles moving into my future March on March. March is going to be a Live Well Month, one that calls for Courage and Rising to the Occasion. It’s an income-free month, full of projects and goals, classes and performances.

In planning my March on March, perusing what I’ve agreed to, building a schedule of meetings, writing time, curriculum planning, rehearsals, budgeting to the penny and making sure I get plenty of exercise, good eats and dog time, what I refuse to let happen is to be crippled by doubting myself. I suffer from Depression, and it manifests in self-hate and ruthless judgement and a desire to give it all up and take a last breath and be done with it.

Courage. Rise to the Occasion. Go.

What good does Self-doubt do? Not self-criticism to keep oneself in check and make sure one is doing things correctly or well or for the right reasons, but rather, that abusive inside voice that says “you can’t”, “you are not smart enough”, “you don’t look right”, “you don’t deserve it”.

There are essays and studies on whether this behavior is based on chemical imbalance, societal pressures, gender constructs, or too much time on Facebook. In the end, it doesn’t matter WHY I do this to myself, but what I can do to stop it. Because not only does it hurt me, it keeps me from supporting, serving, and loving others. It prevents me from performing at the top of my game, from showing up strong, from giving my good stuff to others.

So.

How do I Rise to the Occasion of Life Outside “Alice” with the sense of duty and care as Life Inside “Alice”? (more…)