Two nights ago, the full moon, I took a picture and wrote the following for an Instagram entry:
hermes and the moon. artemis holds council. the message is a long unfolding tale, orb bending waves of white and blue and gold, i am washed in moonlight, waked and stood straight up. naked and tall, i walk the night, faster and faster 'til running. a hunter running because she can. i am not hungry. i am free, and i relish the speed of my limbs, cool kisses of wind on my skin--i am awake, more awake as night deepends--who will dance with me? the full moon sharpens all of me and lifts my toes higher every leap--where are all my sisters? nights like these are made for dancing naked on the sore, baptizing in the water, singing and breathing, bright eyes, no speech. running down the road i know i am what i seek.
follow my Instagram @dasurrealdeal. . .
From yesterday's journaling 3/12/17:
Today I wake round 9:30
I went to sleep round 4:30
The full moon keeps me awake.
I wake with thoughts of Davey. I turn my phone back on. Texts appear—I turn in hopes he's returned my messages finally—I'm wrong. It's my mother and another man—a new friend—who's heart I've completely won. And now I think of Zack, the Hat Man—a dear new friend of mine. I am so thoroughly overjoyed to have met and talked with him. An entirely lovely human, kind and smart and funny. I was anxious talking to him because I was so eager to share anything I could—stories, hopes, wishes, dreams, fears and relating mutual friends.
Last night. . . was wacky. It was surreal. I had texted Davey earlier that day “I hope they [the audience] all get loony” Well. My wish was granted. The Tucson VaudVil show was held at Geronimo Square—a square of a small park snugged into a two block strip bursting with bars and big-named chain stores—a hub of excitement, newness, and consumerism planted literally next door to the U of A. It was spring break. So it was a relatively quiet night. Yet I noticed driving down the promenade the bars and sidewalk seating fairly full—all heads turned to giant tv screens inside bars and out on their patios. Descending Hermes I could hear the televised game echoing everywhere, crowds were quiet, all heads turned towards the dozens of screens glowing about the blocks. That was surreal.
Most shops had closed early due to most of the college kids being absent to Mexico. I dropped my instruments at the Square with kind James—VaudVil founder and producer. (say--read an interview I did for TVV here!) I finally found a restroom and black tea at a hookah cafe—packed with dream-eyed, slow-moving, young beauties—I cut through their clouds to the rest room and after sweet bladder relief, I there drew a star on my cheek and outlined my third eye.
We waited and waited to start the show until after the game ended. U of A! Champions! Woot woot! Two comics, Malachai, and me. Friend Zachary, five other friends, two strange hecklers, and a scant few wanderers pausing to take in what unfolded on that stage between 11:30pm and 1am. One of the hecklers I found a little funny for some reason—perhaps because he seemed put in his good spirits rather bravely—struck me as homeless, though not too crazy—he smoked and smiled the entire time—and had a “crystal geyser” bottle filled not with water. The other heckler. . .now his mind worked more strangely—a piercing, wide-eyed gaze glowed with a hint of madness in the way it never changed, his smile was white and wide, a handsome face—his life story tripped out of his mouth into any silence he could find—a geologist, half native from Texas, holding seemingly endless various accomplishments to his verbal resume. He was carrying around cut gemstones in tiny white plastic boxes. I traded him a tourmaline for a download code. He asked if he could get any change for the train. I gave him two bucks. Should I mention not many folks stopped in the square on their way home from the game? Many did get called to by the comics with their mics. I thought all the performers where lovely. Matt Ziemak was charming as hell in his vulnerable relay of terrible circumstances, from the fact he tried to take molly last night and probably swallowed heroin, to the story of how he dealt with his mother's death via a hilarious online review of an end-table he inherited—I guess I don't want to give away his punch line. Leland Long told stories, who knows which ones were true, revealing his quiet satisfaction in torturing the uptight. I dug that. Malachai sang in sweet mellow tone—his guitar playing was unique, especially when he covered a song by a guy whose name I forget in a style that involved much slapping, tapping of guitar and string--a downright exceptional display of skill and artistry. By the time I took the stage, I was deep into a surreal waking dream. I was both exhausted and energized via the moon and the strangeness of the motley crew bearing witness to each others' suffering in the square. I sang some songs—I did okay—I abused my voice a little more than usual—couldn't seem to maximize my throat openings and let ring what needed to ring—but no matter, the folks seemed entertained and moved and rapt and I was thanked and loved and I hugged everyone and I sold an album proper—may all gods bless Chris The Sound Man, patron saint of reasonable voices in the eye of a vortex of mild, milling, insanity—the kind of quiet madness permeating places or people gnawing it's gums and shuffling down the street and you're not sure if it's going to sit down and take a needed nap or break out into a mad dog run, frothing and howling at any moment.
I am most glad to have finally met Zack Armstrong—a man of many talents: improv, juggling, circus arts, maker of juggling hats, teacher of literature and creative writing. As I said before: a person kind and smart and funny, patient too. I think he is my new favorite person—that is to say, I already admire him—and my first impressions of peoples' goodnesses is never, ever wrong! It is such a deep gratification to meet a friend of a friend—or to meet someone I “friended” on facebook—yet have never met—and to find we get on very well indeed—another hoped-for kindred granted—another cosmic affirmation of guessing what will ever be. If you live in Tucson, check out Leland Long's and Zack's work with Tucson Improv Movement! If you've kids, take the tykes to see FOMP shows—Friends Of Make Pretends, a live improvised kids show Zack created—free every second Saturday downtown :) Sounds dope if ya ask me!
The feeling of Loneliness is like an animal hovering near my vessel—it scares away after every performance—after every chance I have to bare my soul a bit on stage—and after hugging, greeting those who bore witness and testify that I am worthy of their love or whatever they deem. But it, that loneliness, comes swiftly back, like a grey gull to my feast, like a fly you thought you'd rid of, like a something large and thin and empty with hollow hungry eyes, made of tissue paper and fog, long-limbed—it blows away rather easily, with every sacred sharing of song and soul and stage—but that willowy lonely ghost returns with impressive swiftness, quietly appears—I don't know it's there until I feel my breathe tightening and sight shortening. . .it doesn't give up easily. . . as if it wants something. . . but there is nothing for it, for it is a wanting embodied. . . it is but the spectral form of my own thin fears I know are false. Having given him a little shape within this paragraph, I feel more prepared perhaps to greet him next I feel his quiet hoverance, whence I shall hold this picture I have in my mind, and tell him, it's okay to pass on, you are just a dream, my friend, and not really a living thing at all, and I will know him like a piece of cloud, and keep singing to strangers more and more so to blow the poor bloke away. Nay, a piece of cloud has more life in it than the shape of my loneliness. The shape of that loneliness. . . it acts alive. . . but it isn't anything at all. Yet I must do something to keep such falsities at bay, lest I be someday consumed unsuspecting by the forms of my own fear, wrapped round my mind or heart like a plastic bag, made of nothing but thoughts—thoughts born from lack of connection to my kindred. And kindred is all around me, all the time—truly—I hope I don't protest too much—I am simply trying to find the more exact words for why I must keep performing—I must keep performing because it is the way I can most share myself. I must keep performing because it is the best way I know to give joy and love to the most people at once. I must keep performing—singing--being silly onstage—being my truest self on display, so that strangers and friends alike are affirmed in the hope and fact: I am indeed a part of their own soul and they a part of mine.
I am naked inside Hermes. The heat is rising. The day is loping. I must onward to something—send more messages, I guess, seeking free lodging in NEW ORLEANS—oh my goodness and hungry psychic sense, I will be so relieved to be inside New Orleans. My spirit is falling apart waiting years for my body to catch up with it's collecting particles shifting, and hovering and spelling dancing weaving at the mouth of the great gulf with all the other saintly freaks. But will I make it in time? Or have my spirit particles been falling into other timelines—falling away from this life and into other parallel universes of lives I, this Karen, can no longer live? I will not give up on fulfilling the calls—but my caution holds me back still—blasted caution!—I will shake you and quake you!—I have much more mind to lose and madness to accomplish so that I may release my magic in a controlled flood of benefit to my brethen—so my potential may be answered as it is available. I will do it! I am doing it! I am on my way!
What do you feel called to do, my friend? Will you do it? Take one small step today. . . we are doing it together, right now, all the time, all at once—the struggle is beautiful, and you are gorgeous—a star in the web of all my wishes and prayers—sacred fire reflected back to me. Any one who reads this, know: we are all one holy ghost. Find what feeds your connection to others, to life, to this world. Have you already found it? Please tell me about it! Are you still looking? What has your search been like? I want to know you all—that too, is why I travel—I am hungry to see the faces of all my relations.
Aaaand now sweat is truly dripping down my arms and I gotta repark this baby closer to my favorite Tucson hub: 4th Ave.
Don't forget to tell me of the trying of your dreams and the sounds of your calling! If you don't want to post publicly here, just send me an email with a thought or message or story you may feel like sharing—tell me anything at all—just a “hullo” or a passing thought, or a confession or worry you might have, or, tell me your favorite thing to do, tell me what you are working on and working towards, tell me your wishes and describe your weather. Think to yourself, right now, about how brave you are and how hard you try—Think to yourself right now of the most beautiful part of your fleshy funny body—Think to yourself right now what you love most about the place where you live—Picture, right now your favorite flower or tree. Breathe in it's green scent. That is for you. This world is meant for you. The world is you. I love you.
PS: I tried to upload a voice memo--a song journal entry that came to me while I was jogging around the UofA campus yesterday, after I wrote the above journal entry. the words follow. . .
I don't need to take something from somebody
I don't need to take a thing from you
I don't need to take a thing from somebody
I don't need to take a thing from you
I have taken vows
I don't need, I won't try to take it
whats not freely given
I think I released it all, friend
I think I let go before I had it in my hand
I don't need to take a thing from somebody
I don't need to take a thing from you, from me, from you
I don't need to take a thing from anybody
I don't need it
I just wanna take what's given my way
I just wanna take what's given my way
I don't wanna take a thing
I don't wanna try
and take a thing from you
I don't want to want it, I don't want to want it
there are moments when I feel free from any wanting
there are moments when I bless the space you need
there are moments when I see your absence as a beautiful thing
and there months and days and weeks when
I don't feel a thing for you, oh oh oh oh oh oh
just when I feel free of any wanting
that's when I find myself seeking
there are moments when I am the best friend you ever had
there are moments when i'm no good, i'm just bein stupid
but I really don't need
to try and take a thing from anyone
and I think I will
hold on to
the peace I feel
titles: there are moments when i know true love. i hold on to that peace. i dont need to try and take a thing. You don't have what I'm looking for—you don't have it.