Happy 11/11/11/11!!!!1!!11!ELEVENTYONE!!11!

A few years ago I experienced various awesome coincidences; they were of course synchronicities, occurring as they must, as the Universe deemed it. I began to study magic. I had known nothing of it, so to speak- I had only occupied my time with Dionysos, though I would not deign to say so. I was an actress, and that was all I cared about, so long as I was trapped here in this world I had hated all my life. And when I had done everything I wanted, and still found no meaning, and no happiness in my life- I turned to magic, of course. I thought, “If I do not want to bother with the world at all, I had may as well turn to the only thing I can conceivably see leading me past it.” Of course it did not do so- I found that the world, reality, is all there is, and that I am here forever. I found that reality is divine, that reality is God, and that I too am this reality.

Holy reality, by SinnerGhost

In the beginning of my magical studies during this incarnation, I knew little. Yet the rest of my Being knew everything. I was able to tap into the power of my soul, the power of God, the power of all my other lives. All magic comes from God, if you want to call Him that- or perhaps you want to call Her the Universe. The labels do not matter; one may use whatever one prefers if it works.

universe, by ambird

And so I remember a day just after I had bought my first books on magic. I had only just begun reading them, and I had met a priest of Hermes but refused to think anything of it. I still did not take magic seriously, and I still hated the universe, and I still thought God, if he should exist at all, was a tyrant. On this day, I was rather miserable, and crying in my shower. I wanted all the world to stop, but of course it could not do so. It was then I received a vision. It was a vision of an older man. He seemed Jewish. He was dressed in finery. He was from long ago. And the word connected with him was “Magus”. I thought then, of course, of the magi who visited Jesus at his birth. Magicians. Wise men. Solomon was a Magus, a Wise Man, as well, and I would later come to read much material written upon his Goetia. I read of his control over all the demons, and his great control over all magic, perhaps more so than any other Magus, because he was the Wisest. He had a sort of ultimate connection with God, She Whom he called Wisdom. Was this a vision of a Magus from a past life, or simply a message from the Otherside, or God? A message to say that I was doing the right thing.

King Solomon plus some deemunz

I connect this vision with others I would have, later, after I had progressed in the path of magic. I would often have dreams or visions about the number 11. Whenever I see an 11 and an 11 together, I take great notice, for usually, it is Ganymede telling me to pay attention to a synchronicity. It is one of his little ways of communicating with me. It is his way of saying I’m in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.  The most striking dreams I had were those involving 11 candles.

I once dreamt of Moses walking through 11 candles. There was a row on each side of him. They were giant candles taller than trees. It seemed as though they composed all the world. In my dream, I drew a picture of this and put it on my door. Then, the candles transformed into a set of 11 candles before a coffin in a Catholic church. I knew that inside this coffin was Jesus.

When I woke, I researched a bit online to see what this dream might mean. I discovered that, on Easter, 11 candles are placed around the tomb of Jesus to symbolize his 11 living apostles, to whom Jesus gave his Great Commission, to go out and baptize all in the fire of the Holy Spirit. They, as 11 candles, could light thousands and thousands of more candles by teaching them of not only the 10 commandments, but also Jesus’ superceding commandment of Love. I’d had no idea that there was this particular decoration on Easter, even though I had been raised Catholic. And I had dreamt about it despite never having consciously noticed or ever having been told of this. Besides Catholicism, other traditions also have interesting things to say about 11 candles, such as this.

The Easter tomb and crib of Christ, dead and resurrected.

These are all reminders of my path throughout the Universe, my path through Wisdom, my path through God. He communicates to me through synchronicity most often. If one pays attention to such messages, one may come to find God, and his peace, and love, and joy. One may become a High Magus if one only knows how to love God and proceed in communication with him.

One of the three Magi from Aleister Crowley's Thoth Tarot deck. The High Magus, they tell me.

Today is 11/11/11. Today is a day many and varied persons have designated as a day for awakening and ascending to a higher consciousness, for letting in greater love, for communicating with extraplanar beings, and for helping the world to evolve to its next level. Let us all proceed into the Kingdom of Heaven together, hand in hand. Let us learn to communicate. Let us learn to love one another.

Today I will end my post by sharing one of my favorite songs, by one of my very favorite spiritual artists, Tool. Well, really, it is one song, Intermission, and one more song, Jimmy, but they are one song.  I find it to be beautiful.   I may have once thought that I hated the whole world, and may have tried to destroy it- or escape from it- on various occasions,  but  truly I tell you that I loved it for creating vibrations such as this.  For this, existence is worth it.  Love is worth it.

One

and One

are One

11

Hestia and Home by Hollywood – 11/3/11

I will speak a bit more about the home in which I chose to live, and more. I have mentioned that I chose to live in this residential hotel room, independently, away from family, and in the thick of Los Angeles.  I have mentioned how the Hollywood stars used to stay here, and how now, it is very cozy, but very haunted by the various dramarama that has gone down here.

The light outside my door.

As I was moving, Luken told me to check out the movie Barton Fink.  Now, I may feel quite far apart from Luken now.  I feel he was very hateful towards me.  Though I would be friends with him, I cannot be his lover, though he has tried.  He is just a great big ball of negativity for me.  It seems to me like he is always trying to bring me down.  But I would rather focus on the positive.  And I do love him, insofar as I love every being.  And I think he is very smart, even if I do not think he is very in touch with his heart.  Typical of an Aquarius, one might say.  So, I heeded his advice.

Now, if you have not seen the movie Barton Fink, or Sunset Boulevard, perhaps you should not proceed in reading this post, as there will be spoilers.

Ready?

Okay.

Luken told me that Barton Fink was a movie about a playwright who, despite his great talent and success, was down and experiencing writer’s block.  He ends up coming to Los Angeles, where he chooses to stay in a slightly run-down hotel so as to be among the people and receive inspiration.

Hello déjà vu hallway. I think I've seen you somewhere.

Yeah, this totally doesn’t remind me of me at all.  And the rest of the movie totally wouldn’t either….

Anyhow, it soon happened that there would be a double feature showing Sunset Boulevard and Barton Fink.  One of my new lovers and I decided to attend.  This lover is quite good at making me feel like the wondrous goddess I am.  He is a Jewish pianist, which I find quite charming.  He took me to a kosher restaurant first.  I felt a bit out of place being the only lady in pants, but I quite liked it and had a good time.

Then we went to the features. I mentioned before on this blog how, sometimes, it feels as though something one is experiencing- of whatever medium, be it a play, a book, or a movie in this case- was just created for oneself for that very moment.  It is as though it never existed in all the world before that, and then suddenly, God said, “Let there be this movie!” And it was so.  And for you, it is good.  It was so with these two movies and myself.

First, we watched Sunset Boulevard.  It seems so strange that an actress such as myself, who has spent so much time in the entertainment industry and in Hollywood, had never actually seen this movie.  Perhaps I am a bit like that guard on the lot who did not recognize Ms. Desmond.  But oh, how I identify with her, with Gillis, and with the whole film.  I now agree, of course, with the U.S. Library of Congress, who deemed this film “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant” in 1989, and I deem it personally significant as well.  And how interesting it is to watch it for the first time after being so familiar with the locations seen in the movie!  To see the way they looked so long ago.

How I felt it as the unsuccessful B movie writer came between a rock and a hard place, and, facing failure in Hollywood, suddenly found himself magically in possession of a patron.  How drawn in he was to his fate, good or bad, and so have I been.  How much did Norma Desmond focus upon her glory, and how could one not, the way she was such a glowing actress that a Rajah killed himself with her nylon stockings!  I have had men react similarly to me, and it certainly has an effect on the ego.  But oh, such things are illusions… and she could not come to terms with it.  To watch her delusions play out before me was a sort of uncomfortable warning, a sort of both prescient and humbling experience.

Then came Barton Fink.  Barton Fink was, as I had said, a talented and successful playwright who went to Los Angeles and rented a slightly run-down hotel room.  He wanted to write about the common man for the common man, though he was totally pretentious, oblivious, and out of touch.  Okay, I’m with him so far.  I watched him sitting in his room with his typewriter trying to write.  I thought of myself sitting in my room silently with my laptop.  It had everything right down to the bloodsuckers.

And then, finally, at the end of the movie, it takes a completely twisted little turn.  It veers from hypnagogia and other such vaguely dreamlike states, with religious symbolism spattered here and there, into a completely paranormal real-life nightmare.  It turns out that this hotel was Satan’s home… and Barton Fink sees him rampaging down the hallways in all his violent, fiery, unholy glory.

Being that this movie had so much reminded me of myself, I knew I would have nightmares that night.  And so I did.  I dreamt of Satan again.  He popped out of my closet here in my hotel room and then he went on a killing spree.  He spared me, of course.

And, so, when I woke in the morning, I promised not to complain about noise unduly.  Or to complain about anything if unwarranted.  I promised not to come into Satan’s home- Los Angeles, as many say, is Hell- and complain.  I promised to listen, as Barton Fink had been chastised for not listening (and as a result not writing).  Yea, for I am also damned to stay here in Hollywood and Generate all of Creation.

“And the king, Nebuchadnezzar, answered and said to the Chaldeans, I recall not my dream; if ye will not make known unto me my dream, and its interpretation, ye shall be cut in pieces, and of your tents shall be made a dunghill.” – Something like the Beginning of Daniel 2.

All Souls’ Day 2011

Happy All Souls’ Day! Happy Day of the Dead Pt II!  Again, may all souls find love, peace, and joy.

Santa Muerte

Let me speak once more on my home, and as promised, spirits. I mentioned that my Holy Guardian Angel had showed this home to me. As I had said, it is a place we used to visit often in visions or dreams. We would go there for hours a day, often, for years. It was simply a hotel, in my mind, with a certain name, a certain look, and certain qualities. Then, as I was searching for a place to move out on my own, away from negativity- I find that this place is real! It is not exactly the same as in my visions, but it is really so close that it is one of those almost unbelievable, striking examples of synchronicity. It has the same name. And to think, it’s existed since like 1900 and I didn’t even know.  And it is so wonderful- it has bars, various stages or rehearsal rooms, a restaurant, and an organic café/convenience store.  Not to mention it is near so many other lovely things like theatres, festivals, bookstores, a library, transportation, and so on.

As I had said, this used to be where the big bright stars would stay during the golden age of Hollywood. Now it is still beautiful, if old and in need of repair, just like Hollywood. It is still charming, cozy, and magical- and yes, now quite haunted.

He used to stay here. If you look closely you can see the reflection of a ghost! And um, that's totally not one of our Halloween decorations....

I do not engage specifically in ancestor worship as so many do, but I can understand it. I do not feel close to my own ancestors, really, who are disparate and violent, more than any other spirit. But I do feel the ancestors of all the world. We are all one tribe, one family. Some, in ancestor worship, will focus narrowly upon their own locale. I do not have this “luxury” by any means. Now, I do not want to call it narrow-minded. It is only like rooting for your local team. But I see the larger picture, of how we are all interrelated, and how we are all one global, galactic community. We all share the same ancestors. And, as the universe goes on through timespace, evolving past light and atoms and planets and stars to these autonomous beings upon Earth, and humanity, as the generations go on and on, we have more and more ancestors on the Otherside who have lived and died as humans on Earth. And I often sense them. And they are not all as benevolent as many ancestor worshippers hold their own particular ancestors to be.  But that is what Purgatory is for, and why we pray for them, especially today on All Souls’ Day.

Yet, I did not sense them nearly so often until I moved here. As I said yesterday, I took great pains to purify my home. But that doesn’t mean it’s all roses and butterflies here. Firstly, I found that there was a bit of a vampire infestation in this hotel. Just like there had been when I had gone to this hotel with Ganymede. They were a different sort of vampire than the Hollywood types that we had met in our visions- these were the real-life sort. And they were not nearly so fun as the sort Ganymede and I had adventured around. They were nothing but bloodsucking vermin. Every night I would kill one, or more. I don’t know why they’d even come around. I began to have lots of funky dreams about being Buffy the Vampire slayer. I occasionally still do. They would come to my home even though they were uninvited and I had specifically banished all evil spirits. But I would kill them. My neighbors were not so proactive as I- they would give in to the vampires rather than fight them properly, and become their little blood dolls. But eventually, the vampires learned to stop coming into my room.

A light in my home.

And I did not have nearly so many visions until I moved here. I specifically noticed a great spike in hypnagogic hallucinations. I first had these in college when my sleep schedule was completely fucked up thanks to staying out at rehearsals till the middle of the night, then doing homework until the wee hours of the morning, and catching a quick nap before going to class, that sort of thing. So yes, I had completely understandable hypnagogic hallucinations, which are a very common type of hallucination that happen to many people. They are the sort that occur between waking and sleep. As far as one is concerned, they are reality at the time. Of course they are reality, as the Now is always reality. But then, you “wake up”. It is like seeing reality from a different angle. When I graduated, and went back to a normal sleep schedule, these hallucinations stopped. But then I came here. And they began again with a new intensity greater than before, though I sleep quite enough.

Hypnagogic: September 2010, by Brokenopenseed

I have had many visions of the spirits here, though I have not yet ventured to the thirteenth floor, or asked the security guards to let me stay in the ballroom at three in the morning. You see, this hotel is most specifically haunted by the architect’s daughter, who died just as he finished the building. He named it after her, and there is a picture of her hanging over one of the pianos. And she comes to the ballroom at three in the morning. Some people go in, and they can handle it. Some run out changed and frightened.  I also have a friend who is part of a ghosthunting team.  He came here so often that he is now banned from entry.  Hum!  I wonder.

They say the angels are she as well.

Besides just that young lady, I cannot imagine how many other spirits of those who have died here, or those who have killed themselves here, must still be hanging around. Every now and again there is a dead body found, every now and again a new drug overdose is discovered. And, more rarely, there is a suicide such as a jumper. I have seen this, too, in my visions- I watched a man jump, and felt his feelings, and the feelings of all those around him as they saw him fall onto the ground.

Another resident's door, featuring one of the most common elements of my college hallucinations: Spiders.

I have seen a few strange things such as apparent telekinesis, but really, I more often feel things happen. Feeling is a much stronger sense for me than sight, when it comes to the Otherside. I mentioned that no evil spirit can stand before me.  For instance, I had an experience in which, despite the purification I had done to my home, many evil spirits tried to visit me. Many is not the right word. I do not know if it was just because of my location, or if it is the way the world was then- but it was as though the entire world was made up of the sort of monsters that children are afraid will pop out of their closets. Horrible, undefinable shadowy nightmarish entities. And all the world was composed of this. And it began to close in upon me like a great envelope with teeth, consuming me and crushing me. And I let it do so, at first- and I felt that I had no body. And then when it seemed as though all the world would be darkness and evil forever- I began to exercise my will, and I began to expand my heart chakra’s energy, repulsing all these demons. My love and light extended beyond me and permeated all of existence, eventually. It replaced and transformed all of these evil spirits into only goodness and love. And then… because I felt completely in control of the situation… I let go again. I let them come back. And the evil spirits came back unto me to close in upon me and destroy all the world again… and again, it was just as frightening as a nightmare… but I was still in control. By this point I could tell that I was hypnagogic, and I had such control that I could keep myself in that state rather than go to sleep or awaken. I repulsed the demons again and again, remembering what it felt like to have control over all demons until it was old hat again. Finally, I put them at bay until the world was back to normal. And the vision was over.

Heart Chakra, by MysticMantra. Yep, that's kinda what it was like.

Well, I must say, I am glad to have this temenos. It is helping me and all the world that I affect.  My Temenos to Ganymede.

Laughing Sun Vision, by xlagartixax. One of their hypnagogic hallucinations.

Hallowmas 2011 and Purification

Happy Hallowmas! Once again, I pray that we might all find the peace, love, and joy of Heaven, just as those we celebrate on All Saints’ Day- those who have received the Beatific Vision. Any one of us may find Heaven if we so choose. Like I said yesterday, God, the Universe, had me promise to cheer up- and that’s really a good part of it; my negative energy was causing Hell for myself and all the World. If I can transmute this, the world will transform into Heaven. I am bringing the Kingdom of God to Earth as it is in Heaven. In the same way we can all do this. So, if you will join me, let us do this. Happy Day of the Dead!

The Mictecacihuatl takes place throughout the ninth month, Miccailhuitontli, on the Aztec calendar, pictured here, during the corn harvest. 

I mentioned that, upon transforming my surroundings and becoming independent, I used a shamaness’ advice to purify my new home. Like I said, I made it my own sacred, cut-apart space- as the Greek word says, my temenos. It is my temple, to God, if you like to call him that, to Ganymede, as I often label the being to whom I speak. It is a temple to purify and transform all the world.  So of course I need the home itself to be pure and best able to help me achieve this goal.

Mictecacihuatl, also known as Santa Muerte.

I took the sage this native shamaness had given me (and yet, she is mixed and not-so-native, whatever that is- like me) and I began outside my home. As she had advised, I said, “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, I enter this home. All unclean spirits are banished before me.” I then did a deep-cleaning of my new residential hotel room. It was totally devoid of anything except for the sage and my cleaning materials. I swept and dusted and mopped and scrubbed every single surface I could reach.

The Aztecs celebrated death for a month. Then some Catholic conquistadors shortened it to the two days it still spans today.

Occasionally I would improvise a hymn unto Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, whom I had already thanked over and over again for giving me such a wonderful home. Indeed, when I see a homeless person in my neighborhood, which is every time I go outside, as there are so many on every sidewalk it seems, I thank Hestia for giving me a home. I have learned to foster a much deeper relationship with Hestia ever since acquiring this home, since I have such a new and deep appreciation for home, and really, She and Home are the same. Now I am the only one affecting my environment. I am the only one- I pay my bills on time and if I make a mess, I clean it. I am not falling behind on others’ messes, and I can blame no one but myself if I fall behind on my own. And often when I clean I improvise and sing unto her.

Hestia, by, kaaru0000

I added this to the purification ritual: I drew my own version of a circle of protection upon my floor with colorful sidewalk chalk and set candles at each point of the pentagram I’d drawn within it. Some of them were Christian votive candles, others I chose for their color, scent, and personal meaning and symbolism.

. . Vesta . . by 3ddream

Within this circle I performed one of my fairly usual rituals of yoga asanas. I focused upon myself and my surroundings; I focused on becoming one with the world and improving it. This starts with oneself, and turning in, of course. I purged my body of toxins and prayed that I could use this home effectively to work toward purifying the world.

"This is the Form of the Magical Circle of King Solomon, the which he made that he might preserve himself therein from the malice of these Evil Spirits." - Mathers, Samuel MacGregor Liddell: “The Goetia: The Lesser Key of Solomon the King” (1904)

Then, as advised, I lit a good deal of sage. I walked around my home with the sage to get the smoke to waft everywhere. I added this to my saging: I said a little mantra. The mantra I chose was a silly little phrase taken from a little joke Aleister Crowley once said. Now, there is no magic in any ritual unless you infuse it with your own meaning that you believe in and understand. I know that no words have any power on their own. I know that ritual has no power on its own. Yet let us not be as rude as my former roommate who would actually interrupt me during ritual, such as once when I was speaking Hebrew and lighting candles for Hanukkah- he interrupted me, reciting his own gobbledygook, to make this point at me, though I already knew it, disturbing my sacred activities. How negative. Let us ignore such negativity. If we want, we can have real magic in our lives. We must only have faith and know that it works, whatever words we choose. The world is significant if we so choose. So I infused this phrase with a meaning I felt to be real. This is the phrase that was part of a joke on Crowley’s part about exorcising possessed priests: “Apo pantos kakodaimonos” he said, which translates to something like “Gtfo all y’all shitty demons.” (All the nice ones are welcome to stay, of course, and add their positive energy to mine.)

Rudra, by molee.  Shiva and his smoke....

I laid the sage down in the center of my circle once I had been all around the rooms. Now, during this time of my life I began to realize that my spells often have far more power than I intend, in one way or another. In the case of this spell, I accidentally set off my fire alarm, I had generated so much smoke, and I found myself growing a little lightheaded. So I did not recite all the prayers which I had planned upon, but rather, improvised again to make it go more quickly as I turned my fan on high and relocated the sage near a window. But you know how much I love and believe in improvisation. I think it was fine. I returned the next day to find that my sage container had broken and I had burned a little mark onto my windowsill… yes, I use too much power sometimes. This is, again, a reason why God was so insistent I cheer up- my negativity is powerful. But so too might be my positivity.

Psychedelic Shiva -Show Poster, by Cybotics.  Shiva and more lovely smoky scent.

And so, like I said, I now have a temenos. Here I perform many ascetic devotions. I have various instruments to help me with this. And I often sing unto Hestia, or unto other named divinities. I dearly love it and am finding the pleasures in the simple parts of life, even if it seems like the world is trying to fool me into disliking it and being negative again. Yet no evil or negative spirit can stand against my power. Or anyone’s, if they can only awaken to their true power of love and joy. Yes, I am now able to repulse any kakodaimonos, and have been remembering more and more my powers on the Otherside. Let us speak more on the spirit world next time, dear Ganymede.

Santa Muerte

All Hallows’ Eve 2011

One year ago today, I made a promise to God. Like I said when last I wrote of this, it was not a human promise. It was the sort of ecstatic promise in which one is indeed standing outside of one’s human body- though at the same time I never left it. I tasted of the omnipresence of God, and felt my being expand far beyond its normal reaches. I felt my many arms twirl around much like the atoms twirl in my body, and Luna around Earth, and Earth around Sol, and Sol around the galaxy… I felt what it was like to be greater than a galaxy, whatever that is. I felt myself cross the normal boundaries of space and time and the dimensions.

And for what? So that God might get me to promise to fucking cheer up.

L'ange du mal, by Joseph Geefs. Last year, I was The Devil for Halloween.

So that God might iterate, and reiterate, as we twirled around, until I got it through my skull, that there is no problem such as I make things out to be. Like I said, it was sort of like a slap across the face. I saw then Death, and I could have touched him. I saw him in a way I had never seen in any other near death experience, and I’ve had quite a few. He was right there before me. I could have embraced his transformation, but I did not- I chose to live. As lonely as I might have felt, as much as I might have felt down about this or that, the greater part of my own being, the Universe, revealed itself to me, extracted this promise from me, and had me work with Her until We were recreated as per normal.

Mors certa, hora incerta, by missedyn

I had gone into this feeling incredibly lonely, as though all persons in the world were against me and did not understand me- and maybe the ones nearest to me certainly were as such- but this vision was by no means the comfort I would have sought. It was not, “Oh! Here, look, it’s God. Let’s talk. Let me give you a hug and a cocoa and make it all better.” Like I said, it was a little more violent than that. It did not leave me feeling warm fuzzies. Yet I know it is better to know the truth than to seek out false gratification.

I had never been one to enjoy the world- to enjoy God- but had been always pessimistic since before I was a teenager. I had always dismissed the world. But, since that day one year ago, I have done what the former me would have thought unthinkable: I have tried to cheer up. And though I would have recoiled against that in the past, I must say, it works. I am no longer hovering at the bottom of the Abyss, for I certainly was. I have removed myself from my former, unpleasant and unloving situation, and am opening as a flower, joining myself with the natural Tao of the Universe. Life has more beauty, more joy, more magic, more of everything I always wanted but never thought I’d have here in this world. It has been something of a constant struggle against myself and my old habits and patterns, but I find that the more I practice, and the more I look at myself and the world honestly, and do not limit myself or the world, the better and easier it gets.

This year I am a Devi.

Firstly, of course, I moved out on my own. This is the first time I have lived by myself. Back then, I was thinking that if worst came to worst I would go up north a bit to my family’s summer home in the mountains, but oh my did I want to avoid ever living with family. And even though it would have been only thirty miles away from here, it would have been like living halfway across the world. I chose to move to a hotel downtown, to be right here in the thick of Los Angeles. To be right here among so many people, of so many types, and to be right here among the theatres. And oh, have I certainly seen a lot.

At first I wrote regularly because I wanted to keep up with what I was seeing at the Hollywood Fringe Festival. Once that was over, I found I did not want to write for awhile. This was for various reasons. But mostly, it was because I just wanted to enjoy myself in my new home. I have spent endless hours here exploring the ascetic side of Shiva through yoga asanas, meditation, and other means.

Devi, by gorrem

I acquired my home with some difficulty. After getting past a lot of nonsensical red tape thanks to the government and the banks, after a lot of stress I augmented with lots more yoga, I finally was able to move in. I mentioned once in this blog a lady who occasionally teaches me shamanic this-or-that. She gave me advice on how to purify my new home. I will share, next time, in case any reader might want to do the same for their home.

I made this home my sacred, cut-apart space, my temenos. Here I have my own temple unto Ganymede and God, and my own altar unto His whole being.

And indeed I found it because my Holy Guardian Angel made it so. It was a completely clear communication. It was a place we had visited often before, before I even quite knew who he was. Before I called him Ganymede. A previous incarnation, if you will, though there was no carne to the incarnation that I could see or touch. It is a hotel we had visited only in our dreams and visions, for hours upon countless hours. And then I come to find that it actually exists in the real world!

Kali-Ma, by Janicot

It is a hotel the movie stars used to stay in back in the golden age of Hollywood. And now it is haunted as fuck. I have heard many stories. All the security guards have some. And I have seen and felt so much since coming to stay here. I’ll tell you all about that too.

All Hallows’ Eve is a night upon which many say the veil between worlds is its thinnest. This is the night the spirits come close enough to touch, as I saw with Death himself last year. It is as John of Patmos says- Revelation. It is a lifting of a veil, nothing more. Anyone can see it if they try. Hail unto the Holy, Hallowed Universe, and all Her souls.

If I can leave Hell behind, and cheer up, so can anyone.

Augustus 11/11: My Hollywood Fringe Festival 2011 Experience

Now that Fringe is “over”, I have recovered from my Fringury, and I have been on vacation and back, I will reflect upon my whole Fringe experience. I’ve got to say that I had one of the best times of my life. Theatre is very important, to me and to the whole universe. I found that some people do not realize this, so I am lucky to not only be in the know, but to act upon it. My life just felt so much more right while I was Fringing. Everything in the world falls into place, if you can pay attention, even if it isn’t perfect. I even had some pretty strong déjà vu, as though I’d lived certain moments in the Fringe thousands of times. That was at once encouraging and creepy. I don’t always experience this with my theatrical adventures, either, so I figure this is something very special. I told Festival Director and Fringe Founder Ben Hill that Dionysos had blessed Fringe.

Designed by Fringe Art Director Gavin Worth

It felt right to help theatre make its way in Hollywood, promoting shows, giving curtain speeches, handing out guides to the festival, promoting the festival button program, and certainly Freaking. By Freaking, I mean becoming a Fringe Freak, who are the mascots. We attracted a whole lot of positive attention that way. We got lots of honks, waves, shout-outs, and pictures taken. Being Freaks, we let our Freak flag fly- like I’ve said, in Fringe, we know that we are all truly Freaks on the fringe of society.  Dionysos, the Greek god of theatre, is also of course the god of the fringe of society, the Other, and all liminality.  I (and I am sure many other Fringers) feel deeply connected with these things.  Yet it is not just those in theatre who are the Other- we all have an inner, individual, unique Freak just dying to express himself. While wearing a mask, it is so freeing, and so easy to express and channel Freak energy. In order to express my own individual energy and attract more attention, I did a lot of stretching, yoga poses, and I did a little dancing and some apparently very sexually attractive posing- I found that lots of men apparently dig chicks in great big mascot heads. And they weren’t shy about saying so, but oh well. Men; what are you gonna do. Anyway, it felt right to be a Freak.

Me as Red Freak.

Another important part of Fringing is communication. It is very important to socialize and to talk about the shows that one has seen, as that promotes further interest in shows, and that is ultimately what fills the seats of good shows by the end of the festival. It is very important to promote and offer discounts to the right people, because that will get you a lot more action too. It’s important to socialize just because of networking, besides. Not to mention it’s so much fun.

Most of this socializing took place at Fringe Central, in the cabaret tent. The tent was one of the things which gave me that creepy déjà vu. It reminded me of this awful trance I had, where all the universe seemed like one big circus tent (this tent was somehow also my family and home), and this tent was crushing me to death, and then I realized that it was only God and MySelf, and that I wasn’t dead but eternal. How silly of me- I tend to forget these important things when I get scared.  I remember that there’s some stuff in the Bible about the Tent of God.

Some days after these déjà vu experiences at Fringe, I happened to run across some one of these Bible verses or other with notes I’d had there years and years and years ago. I’d forgotten it entirely after encountering it in high school, I presume (high school was back when I was so cool that I called myself an atheist- but for some [now obvious] reason, I couldn’t stop reading scripture anyway). And now I can’t fucking find it, but anyway, the Tent of God is a place he’s got eternally prepared for us to join him and stay with him forever, having all that we need, always, and feasting with him unto infinity. So it doesn’t need to be creepy, but it still creeps me out.

The Tabernacle of God, a dwelling for his Presence.

Inside this tent was Bryan’s Bar. Last year it was simply the bar at Fringe Central, which was at The Egyptian last year, in a sort of back alleyway. But we needed to expand this year, as the Fringe is so much bigger this year, and so that is why there was this nice big tent down on Santa Monica Boulevard in Theatre Row this year. The bar was also enlarged, and of course named, and dedicated to our dear, loved, and missed friend, Bryan Burgess. A sign was erected and we commemorated the occasion with a toast. Our moods were a little different that day. And every time I got a drink at Bryan’s Bar, not only did I say Grace, as I always do (to thank God, Ganymede, and Bacchus for being so kind as to bless me with such a gift from the Universe and bounty of Christ), but I also raised my glass to Bryan, remembering him.

Sign designed by Gavin Worth, shitty photo by me.

I had dreams about Bryan again, of course. In the first dream we were riding a bus, and he told me that he was magic. He told me that, no matter where I ever went, no matter where I might hide, he would always be able to find me. We decided to play a game wherein I would test him, and so I ran off to hide, and he found me almost instantly. Again it felt as if he had never left.

In another dream, I was sitting and speaking with him at Fringe. Others asked with whom I was speaking. I gestured to Bryan and asked, “Do you not see him?” And they did not. It was then I realized, again, that he had died and that I was dreaming… but I could still communicate with him.

There was also a stage for cabaret performances in the tent. Many shows would give a preview of their act there, so anyone could see lots of free stuff just by being in the tent every night. That was awesome. That, and the actual cabaret show, were popular with some of my friends who normally never attend theatre.

There were also the opening and closing parties- our Bacchanalia. I’ve got to say that the opening party was quite possibly the best Bacchanal, or party, period, which I have ever attended, and that without even the aid of drugs! I’d been sober, except for alcohol, for awhile now. I’m sure some at the party were enjoying those other (sometimes dangerous) delights which Bacchus has to offer, but I didn’t need them. Life’s great when you don’t need anything extra. There were so many live performances- but you know what, I didn’t even need those! I would normally have loved to have watched them, but I really never got a chance. There was just too much fun to be had talking to so many friends- old friends, friends from last year’s Fringe, and new friends. Everywhere I turned there was a friendly face.

Design by Gavin Worth.

So there was everything a good Bacchanal would have in their orgiastic nature- food, drink, friends, music and performances of all kinds- now, for anyone wondering, of course, I didn’t see any sex, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening- I certainly enjoyed myself once my partner and I had retreated, immediately following the Bacchanal. And as for other stereotypical ideas, Bacchanalia don’t need to be like those awful ones that actually got them outlawed by Romans, for goodness’ sake; mature adults should be able to handle themselves. There’s no dangerous sex or rape or drugs or black magic Satanic rituals just hanging out all over at our parties. Those are the sorts of fears that fearful minds get up to about any sort of group’s party (I actually had someone ask me if we were a “cult” in the skewed modern negative fashion; I answered that the only cult of which I am a member is Catholicism)- Bacchantes, Christians, Jews, more cults besides those to which those three groups belong, and certainly non-religious groups, all have been blamed for seekrit Satanic baby-eating rape rituals. Who knows how often that really happened; certainly far less often than was accused. But really, that stuff’s no good at a party. Not that Satan wouldn’t be welcome at our Bacchanalia, but he’d have to behave himself. Come on, grow up, people.

Besides just bar talk, another great way to serve the Fringe is through written reviews. The website is great in that one may post one’s reviews and a one-to-five star rating on the show’s page on the website. This helps out the people putting on the shows and the theatregoers at the same time, obviously. Good feedback helps the artist improve or attract more butts in seats, and the theatregoers can decide which shows they’d rather attend. With over two hundred shows, and multiple shows going on at the same time, one must make hard decisions. There were lots of shows I wanted to see, but I just couldn’t make it.

I tried to do a review for every single show I saw and then put it on the website- I think I managed. Things got hectic; I’d literally wake up, either work or post, and then barely have time to rush off to Fringe all day and night before coming back home to start it all over again. Things got so hectic, in fact, that my body decided to slow me down with an injury. Ahh, but I’d wanted to work so hard! But the world wouldn’t have it. So I took the opportunity to relax and meditate, and I took all this time before blogging again.

Design by Gavin Worth.

One man, Luigi, was so kind as to take me to the emergency room, for which I am thankful. I was very upset, but he told me it was nothing- that I would look back on it in a few hours and laugh. I told him that illness, injury, and the fragile, ephemeral, decaying nature of our human vessels was one of the big beefs I’d had with God throughout my life. I told him it frustrates me that I can’t instantly heal myself or others as Jesus is said to have done, and that I wish life were more like a video game in that way: So that we could just go out and harvest a magic heart to restore our health instantly. Luigi told me that it is good life is not like a video game in that fashion; Luigi told me life means more that way. He said he doesn’t think Jesus could heal quite as magically as rumoured, but that he did made lepers feel better because he actually paid attention to them and made them feel like actual, cared-about people. Luigi makes sense. Yet I still struggle with God.

But back to reviews. I’ve only recently begun writing theatre reviews. I decided, if I care so much about theatre, I might as well share my thoughts instead of just keeping them in my own personal review notebook. I thought it might help someone glean some information; help someone improve their own art. I have found this is true; some artists have come to me expressing their thanks, some artists took my suggestions (I was so surprised and pleased to see my advice and influence externalized!), and some asked me for further advice, which I was happy to give. My reviews were reproduced and retweeted and by this I was pleased and honored. Thank you to everyone who used my reviews.

During this I learned more about Twitter, which I had never really used before. I knew it was an important part of modern technology, but I had just never seen reason to use it until now. Finally, I had a really good reason to be promoting something and tweeting things, that others might pay them attention. Of course, I did so amateurishly at first and only learned after the festival about these things called hashtags. Now I know.

Orange Freak in Theatre Row on Santa Monica Boulevard.

I also discovered that I dislike doing negative reviews. I try to encourage the positive, but I cannot lie if I have a criticism. I really don’t want to be “that guy” around whom everyone cringes when I enter, because they’re afraid I’ll rip them a new one, but I have to be honest. Art deserves that much. During Fringe I read an article in Backstage, in Michael Kostroff’s column The Working Actor, in which he advises not being a jerk in that he says that it’s okay to be dishonest, that it’s better to have others associate a “feel-good” feeling with you because you falsely complimented them, and he strongly suggests extending only praise, because, oh God forbid, you might end up like he did one evening when a friend sulked at him the whole night. Yes, because all that ego shit is so important! No. It’s okay if you hurt your friend’s ego. If you’re too much of a pussy to be honest, art suffers. Some of those I reviewed, I asked about this, and they agreed. They would rather I were honest so that art might improve. I heard some saying that they wished Fringe reviewers were more honest instead of always just showering praise, which gets no one anywhere. Constant praise only gets us a monochrome, talentless, cowardly, reality-tv sort of art, in the end.

You know, I wish more clerics were as open-minded as theatre artists. I don’t know how often I’ve tried to give them much-needed religious/spiritual/whatever criticism, and their poor little egos get so hurt that they refuse to speak with me- and often accuse me of being of Satan. If only they knew what that’s really about. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to offer religious criticism. We should all be striving for improvement. But some people seem to think it’s horrible and awful that I should dare suggest they might improve upon something. Probably because they think whatever it is I’m criticising is Ever So Holy and Perfect, and if I show them that perhaps they could have a whole new way of thinking, this Ever So Holy and Perfect Idea, with which they had been so wholly identified, seems to die. Therefore, since they were so wholly identified with this Idea, they get this feeling that they themselves are dying as well, or, as some have said, it feels like I am raping them. This is entirely illusory. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I believe in the law of love. But even with this law of love, there is a definite need for a Devil’s Advocate- there is a need for Satan, or, as Satan is translated from Hebrew to English: An adversary. A prosecuting attorney. Otherwise we stagnate and atrophy.

So as for just a little bit of review here, I will mention a couple of shows that I saw more than once. It wasn’t because I really loved them and wanted to see them again so much as it was convenient with my schedule. I found that upon subsequent viewings of Full Frontal Music, I began to enjoy the music more. That’s the way music tends to go if it is any good. I found that some of James’ transitions eased up, but still, the show continued to have a slightly unfinished, work-in-progress quality. That’s cool, though. It’s nice and intimate to see an artist at that stage. Another play I saw again was Barking Pig. I had written that I thought they needed more rehearsals- I later found out that they’d only had two weeks of rehearsal, which is mind-boggling to me. A play needs at least a month, if not more- so, they had it pretty together for only having had two weeks, but I still say they could have used more rehearsal. The show did improve by the time I saw it again at the end of Fringe. Yet there were still a few of the actors who wouldn’t have been better after months of rehearsal, as one cast member told me, and I think this is perhaps true. But some of the actors had really good performances. Thirdly, I had tried to attend a commedia workshop with Tim Robbins’ actor group, but they cancelled at the last minute. Thus proving the rumour that… I don’t want to be rude. I found the actors to be nice, friendly people at Bryan’s Bar, but I was disappointed and so were my friends. Sad.

Freaks on Parade

Finally, I would like to speak of the Pride Parade. Being Fringe, and theatre, and so many of us not being “normal”, whatever “normal” is, of course we wanted to proudly march in the parade. Fringe got its own section, and we marched with a big banner, and with our mascots the Fringe Freaks, and some of the rest of us came dressed up in costumes, some came dressed in regular clothing, and we handed out Fringe guides and show flyers.

I must say, it was a truly wonderful experience. I had such an amazing time. There’s nothing quite like dressing as yourself- yourself when you are truly vulnerable, because you are expressing your human, sexual nature- and being cheered by thousands and thousands and thousands of people. In my case, considering my proclivities, I dressed as transgender, and, because I was marching with theatre in a parade, I of course harkened back to the ancient days of Dionysos’ celebratory phallic parades which began theatre in the first place. I dressed as a horned satyr with a giant penis- Sarah Grace says she’ll never think of me without a big black cock again. (Because of such silliness, I also had the balloon-maker at our opening Bacchanal make me one for the party, and many came to know my satyr self that evening too.) I was not the only Fringer to celebrate the holy magical phallos in their costume.

Mah balloon, on mah yoga mat. I think it went well with my pretty dress.

There’s nothing quite like wearing a giant erect phallos on national television and being totally accepted for it. Even my parents were proud. I’m very lucky in that regard. I pity anyone who lives in a family of the sort who are of the same mindset as some protesters who came to the parade. They were kept cordoned off and security was careful. In fact, I almost did not even notice the poor souls. I was so busy feeling elated and prancing around with my friends while people waved and screamed at us, and so many came to us to take pictures with us. I saw many holding signs that said such things as “God loves fags” to which I myself screamed and cheered in approval. It was them I noticed first, before I saw that a long way off behind them were people holding signs of the opposite variety. I promptly ignored the poor dears, for I wanted nothing to interfere with my holy, sacred, good mood. I remember a television miniseries from long ago- Merlin, with Sam Neill. Merlin decided to defeat his evil adoptive black-magic witch-goddess mother through the power of ignoring her. You see, if one does not pay attention to something, it will not be attracted into your life. Only that to which you pay attention is attracted, like gravity. It takes both faith and deeds; it’s not quite always like that somewhat silly movie The Secret makes it out to be, but that’s mathematically and physically the way the world works. Once Merlin ignored Queen Mab, she dissolved into nothingness. Indeed I hope that we can all do that with the negative, black-magic portions of our various cults and religions. I hope that we can all feel accepted for being ourselves, our varied as the rainbow selves, as I felt strongly that day.

This is a little sketch I drew and colored, featuring some of the Fringe Freaks, Toad, and myself during the Pride Parade.

“Then God  said to Noah and to his  sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your  descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the  domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark.  I establish my covenant with you, that  never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.‘  God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and  you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations:  I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.  When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh.  When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.‘  God said to Noah,  ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.‘” – Genesis 9:8-17, NRSV

lol god r redundant sumtiemz

I also found an old poem from my Catholic youth Catechismish upbringing: “God of imagination and color, only you could come up with the idea of a rainbow! Rainbow and sunshine, harmony and diversity, mercy and hope, promise and joy, wonder and awe. Are these inside me, the wondrous creation you delight in? Guide me to the rainbows in my life!”

I saw a gay friend of mine from college; I ran up to him and we hugged one another. Lots of people complimented me and wanted to take pictures with me- more than one person grabbed me in a way that would have seriously hurt if my phallos were real. One such couple who took a picture with me were a priest and a nun, and the nun did something to me in their picture that made even me wonder “omg is this wrong?” Only because nuns are supposed to be married to Jesus, and, well, what she did would have necessitated an open marriage. It all just happened so fast! I’m hoping Jesus won’t mind what I did with his wife; it wasn’t real anyway and was all in good fun. There were lots of ministers from various faiths at the parade, which I thought was wonderful. It is wonderful how so many realize God’s special relationship with sexuality- so long as it is love, it abides by the law. Love one another, and have a good time.

Satyr at a phallic parade.

Something I wondered about is children at the parade. I am so used to being around children that I wanted to trot up to them, greet them, and smile at them and say hi, because they’re generally so much more friendly and outgoing than adults, who are more bogged down by their Srs Bsns Egos. Yet I had to stop myself, for I realized that I was wearing a giant erect phallos, which could be very inappropriate. Long ago, children were not spared from nudity, and children marched naked in ancient Greek parades dressed as little Cupids or whatever, but our modern society is different. Here, we shelter children and keep them innocent. I want to respect that; I do not want to force any child to grow up faster than necessary. But these children would have seen a LOT in this parade- I mean, what with all the people dressing as they would to engage in their special fetishes. I wonder if any strange questions were asked of parents that day about pony play and so forth. I hope these parents were more honest than mine; who would never answer my questions, and so I found out about sex through some random, clinical pamphlet in one of those fifth grade classes that teaches you about how you’re growing up and changing so you have to start wearing deoderant. It’s a tough line to ride; introducing children to sex properly. It’s tough helping them grow up at all properly.

If I had one criticism about the parade it would be that I heard Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way” far more times than is ever necessary (once is more than is necessary). I understand that people identify with the message, and I saw lots of shirts with that slogan on it, which is fine. But God, couldn’t we find a better anthem? One that doesn’t make my soul cringe every time I hear it? The way my soul cringes at 99¢ Store window displays, which, like Warhol’s Campbell Soup painting, reflect our modern, plastic, consumerist, banal society? Well. We can’t have everything, and I must accept that so many people want this to happen. Such is free will. I musn’t judge too harshly.

After the parade was over, a friend and I walked back through the crowded streets, looking at everyone in their fun costumes. And others looked at us. More than once I heard in tones of awe, “Wow. The Devil has a big dick.” I hadn’t really meant to be The Devil, but, well, the only horns I had were devil horns. I tried to balance it out with my rosary, but maybe that only made it seem more devilish. So I guess I was not just a satyr, but also The Devil. Well alright, sure- I guess it was a good costume, hooray. What fun. My friend and I walked down past private parties who’d rented out entire restaurants and had male and female strippers dancing on tables. (I wonder how those strippers feel about that? Maybe they’re having a good time, maybe not. I have complicated feelings there too. I don’t want anyone to be having a bad time, but I won’t deny that I like looking at it.) My friend and I got caught up in a spontaneous public spanking spree that spread itself down the street as someone had been handing out paddles.

Some Fringers at Pride.

But, after that, we went to go dine at a perfectly nice family restaurant, and there was no adult language or activity. We had a perfectly normal, lovely brunch. A good clean brunch, you might say, though we were still partially dressed in our costumes. We had a perfectly good, mature time discussing the finer points of theatre and philosophy regarding the Universe. My friend told me of how he’d studied with Del Close briefly before his death, and I told him that my ego was flaring up ever so slightly in jealousy, as he’d died before I could get to him. I only have his students. My friend told me that one of Del’s other students had told him that Del was into black magic, at which I was aghast and surprised beyond measure. I expressed my disbelief. I told my friend that it seemed completely contrary to Del’s nature, as Del had been such a figurehead in improvisation and theatre, and those are mass heal spells. My friend agreed- those are mass heal spells. Mass heal spells are entirely contrary to black magic, and black magic is no good for anyone, caster or castee. What an entirely mysterious rumour.

At the end of Fringe, before our closing party, we had an awards ceremony. It was totally laid back- no speeches allowed. Thank God. For every official category of plays, such as Best Comedy or what have you, you’d win a little wooden statue of a Fringe Freak. I myself was honored briefly, not with a Fringe Freak award, but with a Soter-type title, and the lovely lady who’d awarded me this title told me I’d been making Bacchus happy since 1986. I felt so pleased and warm and fuzzy to be recognized, and even shy and embarrassed as my friends asked me to stand up for my applause. Maybe I’ve gone so long avoiding praise that I almost don’t think I should get it. But really, I was honored- and I mentioned later that it is really everyone at Fringe, all those making theatre, who are the ones saving the world. Although in all seriousness it was a good thing I was there to save everyone from the rampaging shark with the flamethrower.

Ben Hill and Stacy Jones are ready to give out little Blue Freaks.

For our closing bacchanal we had a live band karaoke, which is always fun. It was fun to see all my friends singing, unpracticed, just for the hell of it. I sang myself. I didn’t really know many of the songs on the list, but I knew one well enough, and yeah, it was fun to sing raucously with a band playing behind me. I was bittersweetly reminded of one of the drummers I’ve been dating- he’s a Libra, constantly seeking balance and finding none, slow and judging, all the way across the Zodiac from me and hard to touch or see. Oh well. The last thing I need to do is fret over an adorable yet egocentric, flaky little manchild who doesn’t realize how much he should value me on those scales of his. You can’t change people, and I have better ways to spend my time. So I will. Especially when I have so much to be grateful for and so much to keep me happy and in pleasure- thank you, God. Thank you for the many satellites who keep a close orbit to me. This party was a little slower than the opening party, and I wished so badly that I could have danced, but my injury prevented me. Afterward I went home and enjoyed a denoument of making love to one of my percussionists.

How wonderful do I find the world of theatre.

Review: Four Clowns: Romeo and Juliet

This show featured Shakespeare’s moste excellente masterpiece, Romeo and Juliet, as performed by a troupe of clowns. I thought this was great. I thought this was one of the best versions of Romeo and Juliet I’ve seen. I certainly enjoyed myself the whole way through, which is more than I can say for other productions of Romeo and Juliet. It wasn’t the best play I’ve ever seen, but it was certainly very good.

I found their timing impeccable; the show just kept right on clicking. The clowns were able to provide constant entertainment at a level that never dipped. They kept the same energy right through to the end- and it’s hard to keep the same level of energy for ten minutes (as I know from watching way too much improv), much less a whole ninety minutes, especially when you start off with such a big bang in the first place. This was obvious by the end, when some of their facepaint had dripped off in sweat. Now there’s the mark of a dedicated player. I thought their energy was more impressive than any other pure comedy that I saw at the Fringe, in this regard.

I found much of their show to be quite humorous and laughed often. I liked it when the Mischievous Clown, Mercutio, played his ukelele while trying to climb a ladder and stopped to say, “-hold on, this is hard…..” I liked it when the Sad Clown, a Keanu-like Romeo, said to Angry Clown Juliet, “Roll with me!” and they did somersaults. I liked it the way Worried Clown played Lady Capulet like totally the worst Beverly-Hills-ignoring-you-full-of-herself mom ever- man, they get on my nerves, and it’s good to get some catharsis out.

It is interesting to note that one L.A. theatre critic, Harvey Perr, made this statement:

“Radar LA was much more important than the Hollywood Fringe Festival. More important in its objectives. Because it brought to our city everything the city hasn’t had in the theatre. I didn’t see anything like that here. I don’t think it’s all that exciting. Last night I was surrounded by thousands of screaming people who seemed to have no judgment or taste and I’d rather be around those other people. And that was one of the best shows at the Fringe. ”

Perr had seen most Radar shows, but only one out of over 200 Fringe shows- Four Clowns. Lulz.  Ah, well, Perr has already been embarrassed by this statement enough, but I do want to discuss critique regarding Fringe and shows such as this.  Perr, and others, also did not take into account that Radar and Fringe have entirely different purposes, modus operandi, and audiences. I don’t know what Radar brought that Fringe didn’t (and Perr does not explain) but maybe I just have no judgment.

There were other critics Who Shall Not Be Named who forgot to keep a wider perspective, and certainly who forgot to be eloquent, diligent, or at all constructive in their reviewing process. The show “completely SUCKED” was one entire review. Ahh, professionals. Now, I use foul language too, but I also try to be educated at the same time and honestly review shows. I try to avoid horrible logic, that is, faulty mathematics, such as generalization fallacies and so forth. I don’t pretend to be the best critic in the world. Most of it is only opinion anyway- I saw reviews for one particular show which would say, “not enough acting” and another review for the same show say “too much acting”. But I do believe that criticism should be constructive. I wonder why some critics desire to be so completely useless that their review consists only of insult- not constructive criticism, or an explanation of why a show was awful, but mere insult. Oh, because it makes one feel good to do that. It engenders sensationalism instead of art. It gives one a high. We need to overcome these egoic matters and realize that we are all one theatre community intent upon creating the best art possible.

Others will rightly say that since Fringe has that different modus operandi, we have a lot of clunkers. This is a place for new and emerging art. We accept any kind. A lot of it is unfinished and a lot of it does suck. What were you expecting? But more of it is good, and a lot of it is truly wonderful. I think some critics were indeed expecting the quality of a hit Broadway musical, but shit, we haven’t got nearly the same budget. You’re going to see, gasp, very crude theatre. But you know what? I like that. I like that Four Clowns merely used a simple set of two ladders, a curtain, and a trunk. That’s more than is needed in any show. I’m used to much simpler sets of just a chair or two. I’m used to improvising at home like the French aristocracy did long ago to entertain themselves at parties. As a former professor once emphasized over and over, theatre is Greek for “seeing place”, and so all one needs for theatre is a space in which someone might be seen by a seer. We don’t need your fancy production values to have awesome theatre. And I think most of Fringe was better than a lot of other crude theatre I’ve seen, besides. Never did I actually find myself in a Fringe show wishing the ENTIRE TIME that I were somewhere else, as I have done on many occasions while watching other theatrical performances. Even the worst shows at Fringe didn’t evoke that awful feeling for me. Maybe I was lucky. But I think that’s pretty good for the amount of shows I saw.

So. The one show that Harvey Perr did see was, indeed, Four Clowns. And he didn’t like it and thought we, the audience, were tasteless. To each his own opinion, I suppose- I liked some shows many viewers disliked, and disliked some shows many viewers liked, and obviously opinions aren’t fact- but Four Clowns swept the awards at our awards ceremony, winning the Dance & Movement Award, the World Premiere Award and the Top of the Fringe Award. I know that a majority population can often be wrong about something, as anyone can see by looking at the phenomenon of popular music, or the fact that something like Prop 8 can be voted in, but in this case I agree with the majority. I think Four Clowns was great, even if I don’t necessarily think it was the best show I saw at Fringe. Now, this was certainly a modern Romeo and Juliet for a modern and perhaps youthful audience- the clown humor was very adult. I guess we Fringers are just tasteless for enjoying a good anal foot-fucking so much. I mean who doesn’t, Perr? Don’t lie. It’s totally tasteful.

Okay. To be fair, this might just be an age thing. I know that my uncle was once, in college, a carefree pot-smoking individual who laughed at all sorts of low-brow humor. Then, as an adult, he became a Responsible Republican. He watches the same movies which once had him gasping for air between laughs, and now finds them, indeed, tasteless. Well, so maybe Perr just doesn’t realize what is appealing to youth and to a great number of people. He is entitled to his opinion. He probably doesn’t poop either. But I believe firmly that Four Clowns and Fringe both provide a lot for humanity and artists.

“…farceurs… took on the most famous story of all, but twisted Shakespeare’s text into an excuse for unjustified F-Bombs, unnecessary non-stop mania and unreasonable amounts of libido-driven crassness. Laughter may be the best medicine, but medicine can have toxic side effects, too: the show needed to breathe and take itself more seriously. ” – Tony Frankel

“Regard for the Bard and the venerable art of clowning reach a perilous new low as the Four Clowns brutally burlesque Shakespeare’s immortal tale of star-crossed lovers into an excruciatingly witless 90 minutes of egregious, nonstop mugging and scatological excess. ” – Bill Raden

VENERABLE ART OF CLOWNING LOLOLOLZ

Oh, man, this reminds me- do you remember those venerable days of satyr plays, those popular masterpieces of our theatre’s ancestry? Remember the mighty and noble and venerable phallos? Remember the comedies, too? So adult. So proper. I certainly remember fondly those days when I belabored over the perfect way to translate the master, award-winning, Greek playwright Aristophanes’ words about farting moste eloquently. It is so sad to see it all go to σκατός (the Greek word for shit feces, whence scatology descends). The Great and Mighty and Infallible Bard would never have stooped to such humor!

Note that Four Clowns has a kickstarter campaign that they might begin a national tour, if you’re feeling generous toward theatrical or clownish arts. I hope they do get to spread their art across the nation; it would be a good thing for everyone.  Haha, they already made it long before I could even post this review.  Good on them.

Review: Erotic Jewish Story Improv

Here’s my review of Howard Lieberman’s one-man improv show, Erotic Jewish Story Improv.  I attended this show because of course I love to have fun with religion, and I also like combining sex and religion. So I wanted to see what this show had to offer. I attended with a friend who said he’d not liked Howard’s show last year, but last year it had been with another man and entirely different. My friend said he ended up pleasantly surprised, and I too enjoyed the show.

Howard took his suggestions from fortune cookies, which came in a box that we passed around like a game of musical chairs. Whomsoever upon the box of cookies landed when the music stopped would have to open a cookie and read the fortune as the suggestion. As the show was improvised and will never occur this way again, I will give you an idea of the stories, because they were so good I want to share their energy a bit.

Howard’s stories were really quite touching. He improvised a story about his character’s loss of virginity with a black woman in college. In their Wisconsin town, back in the sixties, it was unheard of that there might be an interracial, interreligious relationship. All the white students ignored them, so Howard was the only white person at his table in the cafeteria. He said he hadn’t meant it that way, but that he had simply formed a completely organic attraction to the woman, as anyone would do… humans are simply led along by their hormones into situations like this. He spoke of young love as we have all experienced it- the timidity of initializing contact, the awesomeness and amateurity of that first sexual experience, and so on. And then, one day, he was no longer welcome at his usual table, and no one would look at him. Finally the woman he loved deigned to speak to him- she told him they wanted nothing to do with him, because that day, “your people killed Dr. King.” Sounds a lot like “your people killed our King and Saviour”, or any other such useless excuse for division among humanity. An idea as old as humanity and affecting all ultimately arbitrary categories of persons.

Howard says he uses humor in his stories, which are dark, because humor saves one from the darkness. Humor is the way that the Jewish race has survived, he says. I like dark comedy. I like dark improvisation. It’s more real that way. It means more.

Howard told a story of growing up with a close friend, the kind of close friend with whom one so identifies that one begins to do what they do. He said that this friend taught him how to speak and move and listen to certain kinds of music. His friend confessed that he’d been sleeping with a male nurse, and that he didn’t want to be that way, but that he couldn’t stop because it felt so right, and he asked his friends to please not stop being friends with him. Howard didn’t know why he wouldn’t be friends with him. Then one day his (closeted) father forbid him to see this friend anymore, because this friend was a “faygele”. Howard learned what that meant, and learned that people thought it was wrong, and learned to exercise a prejudice he didn’t even really have. I think lots of people are pushed into doing that through peer pressure or thanks to the useless, warped, and outdated morality of their family. He never talked with that friend again, until one day he heard over Facebook that this friend wanted to give him a call. He said that was okay. The friend never called.

Howard told a story of being a rich German boy who was suddenly taken to Auschwitz. He told of the various horrors one would see and hear about. He told of driving his body to the brink of exhaustion doing the work of an “animal”, as the Nazi soldiers called him. He went to his barrack to sleep on his plank that night completely sore. But he was still a human boy. Because he was human, he reached out to do something human- to make himself feel good, there in Auschwitz on his plank. He thought of רחל (Rachel; ewe; one with purity) as he touched himself, and he said it was as though Raḥel was truly there with him, though he was alone. And thus he felt the presence of God, and this, I think, was the most touching part of the show. Even, and often especially, when we are alone, God is there. We are humans experiencing divinity.

Howard also told a story about his Bar Mitzvah. He told of how his turn came to recite the Torah. He stood there in front of everyone to recite, and then he looked at his date. At this point in the story, Howard looked at me, for I was the only female in the audience. He said that he’d never seen this girl wearing anything quite so interesting- lace all around a low-cut neckline, which seemed very mysterious and intriguing to him at thirteen years of age. And so he became very distracted from his recital, and he also became aroused. So he was pitching a tent right there next to the Holy of Holies. I thought this was very funny. And it just goes to show you that sex and religion just cannot be separated even if you do have a Holy of Holies right there next to you. He had finally looked away from me, too, at some man, which was good for comedic effect, and later he told me it was because he said he felt inappropriate! Many think I am underage, but I told him that I’m not and not to worry- it’s kind of hard to be inappropriate with me, of all people. I seem innocent on the outside, but anyone who knows me knows quite the opposite. I know full well we are sexual beings and I would rather have fun with that than feel shame over it- shame is a useless emotion that helped to cast us out of Eden anyway.  Just so long as men exercise the law of love, humor is of course welcome.

All in all, I had a fantastic time at this show, and recommend it to anyone who isn’t squeamish about sexual and Judaic themes.

Review: William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: The Death of a Dictator, adapted by Orson Welles and The Gangbusters Theatre Company

Of course I went to see Julius Caesar.  Julius Caesar is one of my very favorite historical figures, and I like Shakespeare too.  Oh, I had an excellent time.

To begin with, there was complimentary wine. As I have said, this gives so many points. Wine and theatre are a holy combination and more should recognize this. I gave thanks and said my blessing for the wine, being very grateful to Dionysos and the Universe for having provided it to me. Later, it of course offered a good means by which to socialize with the actors and crew and so forth.

I read a review earlier which said it thought “The production foolishly substitutes emotion with blood. The emotionally wrought betrayal of Caesar is lost to fantastical gore effects. The raw breakdown of Brutus is replaced with yelling and knife wounds. The production’s strongest players (much to the offense of Shakespeare) were the women.” Strange confusing sexist remark aside, I disagree entirely. Also, where were these fantastical gore effects I was promised? It’s not like there were buckets of blood and entrails being thrown about. There was about as much blood- perhaps even less- than was appropriate. I would not have minded more blood. I mean, when someone is stabbed twenty-three times, do you expect there to be no blood? Do you expect there to be no yelling and knife wounds? Do you expect Brutus to talk it out with his dying maybe-father like he would with a therapist on a sanitized couch? And when conspirators have retreated from battle, do you expect them to look as if they had come from the spa? The review also said “attempts to update the piece further with a Metallica soundtrack and a score by composer Bone Douglas were both distracting and ill-fitting.” Again, I completely disagree. Again, I could have used more Metallica! Why, it pretty much only occurred during scene changes. I thought it fit beautifully with the tone of the piece. It helped me delve so much further into the mood, and improved the play by leaps and bounds as far as I am concerned. It excited great emotions within my body; I was not distracted, but inserted. Honestly, I wish plays were modernized more often in this fashion. It is far more relevant to the youth of today. And I’m pretty sure the old ladies behind me in the second row liked it too.

I enjoyed that the actors kept a good pace with the show. That is hard to do in any play, much less Shakespeare. Even though I should say I have a better understanding of English than many, since it’s fucking Shakespeare there were a few lines I just didn’t understand when they flew by me. But at least it sounded more like the rhythm of a song when escaping the mouths of the actors rather than the drawn-out pretentiousness of an actor pretending he feels what his character is feeling when he really doesn’t. I saw none of that latter nonsense.

I enjoyed the casting choices- the cast was all talented each in their own way, and they were all young and fit and attractive, suitable for violent choreography, but they were diverse in appearance otherwise. Unlike those productions in which people such as HBO tend to cast a bunch of old white British guys in the roles of senators, I enjoyed seeing for the first time in my life Caesar and Cassius as beautiful, strong, dark-skinned black men. It lends another feeling entirely to hear the deepness of such voices, too.

I enjoyed Antony’s speech very much. To watch as the carouser found his friend dead, wept, cursed Rome, and then to see as he manipulated the crowd against the conspirators satisfied unseen parts of my being. I could feel the effect like a wave, the wave that must have swept over Rome long long ago. And I could see this effect in the actor- when he finished, it looked as though he had just culminated sexually or been stimulated and then drained by a powerful black magic spell- he had certainly accomplished something great, something a human being does not often do.

I also so very much enjoyed the lighting. It was the best lighting I’ve seen in the Fringe. It fit the play so well. The lights were startling beams of white in a dark black sea. There was more dark than light through the entire piece, it seemed. Paired along with the excellent choices in music, it was like a creepy dream, fitting well all the mentions of the omens indicating Caesar’s death. It fit well the furtive arranging of conspiracy, the horrid murder, the curse of Antony, and the pitiful flight and defeat of the conspirators unto suicide. It kept the darkness close around us like a shroud, like a dark mother of night whom we know and who knows us intimately, and who will come to know us more upon our own deaths, keeping her close and present with the audience and not just separated, not just for characters of long ago.

Indeed, though these people lived thousands of years ago, they still felt present. As I watched I was reminded of former trance states when I had begged to be returned to “reality”. I thought of the reality of watching a play- surely I was grateful to have been returned to reality so that I could watch the drama unfolded by actors before me. I thought to remember this should I ever again experience a bad trip. Surely it would comfort me? We humans love to watch drama unfold, we love to watch the story arc, the characters, and the climax of conflict. Yet, in order for this to exist… we need humans with drama. These were real people to whom this really happened. I thought of this as I watched the actors display the poor souls before me. That these humans should have experienced all this, that which entertains me for a night, is awesome in the sense that the magnificence of a star, the size of which we cannot imagine, is awesome.

I recommend this play to anyone who likes Shakespeare and honest violence; honest exploration of the dark side of humanity.

Review: The Sex Life of Achilles

I loved this show from beginning to end. I may be biased in that I am a classicist, the Iliad is my favorite poem, and Achilles is one of my favorite heroes of all-time… but I think anyone would have enjoyed this.

I met the playwright and others before the show, at Bryan’s Bar. They recommended it to me and I told them I would certainly come- how could I not? The playwright and narrator, David LeBarron, told me that he is a Priest of Thetis. I am not sure if he was joking or serious- even if he was joking, he is at least partially serious, considering that he is a bard who so honors the son of Thetis through the holy ancient art of theatre, and he labeled the theatre space as the Temple of Achilles. A fitting and honorable temple. I told him in all seriousness that I am a Priest of Ganymede, and we cheered the bartender.

I’ll just start with the beginning: Before I went into the theatre, I purchased wine. It was a special Malbec which the theatre’s bartender/Ganymede recommended to me. He asked me about it as he had given up drinking. I told him it was quite good- I told him it felt better going down my throat more than it tasted good. He told me that is the tannin. I discover that I enjoy tannin. Perhaps it is sad that I love Dionysos so and do not know as much as I could about wine- I can’t smell very well, so I can’t taste very well, but I do try, and I am learning a little more with every new bottle.

I took the glass into the theatre. I love theatres in which one may drink. I think that is a holy observance. I sat in the front row, the Emperor’s Seat, so that I might have the most pleasing view, the view that the ancients gave to the judges, the Emperor, and Dionysos. I saw the set up-close and personal, and enjoyed being close with the actors as well. Thetis was close for much of the play, and the narrator even came to interact with the audience a bit, sitting two seats away from me. I love that about theatre. I also enjoyed this play’s program- it was, I think, the best program I’ve seen in the Fringe so far. It was arranged as a papyrus scroll, and the descriptions were fantastic. For example, in the Who’s who of Ancient Greece:

 

Achilles: the hot legend of the Iliad, perfect

Patroclus: his super sexy lover and kissing cousin

Briseis: his gorgeous slave trophy and wife

Agamemnon: King of Argos, an asshole

Priam: King of Troy, old as shit, lots of kids

Cerberus: the 3 headed dog of Hades and Hogwarts

Zeus: Father and King of the Gods, man-whore

Hera: His meddling wife, Goddess of Prop 8

Aphrodite: Goddess of Love, born from balls/foam

 

and this was lovely:

 

Special Thanks:

Akbar, Jeffrey Wylie, Frank Helmer, TON, And props to Homer (not Simpson) and the other dead dudes. And to Dionysus without whom we mightn’t have made it.

So that gives you an idea of the tone of the show. There were lots of great jokes like that- I love it when writers can take an ancient story and make it accessible to modern audiences. Modern audiences require modern language. Like when the goddesses came to Zeus asking who was most beautiful- the goddess of Love, the daughter sprung from his own head, or his wife? Says the narrator, “Zeus knew he was fucked.”

 

The premise of the show was that the narrator, Acheanus, “slave courier of Achilles, no literary basis” retold the story of Achilles to Thetis with the help of Briseis. Briseis was played by Shanna Beauchamp, “Briseis, Fight Choreo, Actor, Educator, Amazon, and lover of words.” She really did look like an Amazon; she was lovely. Thetis (Rebecca Norris, Thetis, Composer) entered in the beginning with a tragic mask, sang awhile, and reclined on pillows at my feet for most of the show to watch the other two perform.

 

For Acheanus and Briseis, this retelling was bittersweet. They told of how it was necessary that they should tell this story, so that they could remember a man they had so loved, so that, through the bard’s work, he might remain immortal. Through reconstructing their memories of him, it was like keeping their lover present with them.  As another reviewer said, it was like therapy.

Acheanus said he would begin his modern retelling of the story of Achilles and started with, “Yo, yo, I speak of Achilles-” then stopped and shook his head, signalling that he would not try to rap, and we all laughed very much. Yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted to hear poor rapping from a white man trying to look cool. No, he stuck to what he did well. He was funny and touching.

Though the play was titled the Sex Life of Achilles, it talked about more than sex. It spoke of much of his mythology. Yet, unlike in the Iliad wherein it will simply say something such as “Achilles loved Patroclus more than all others”, the romance was explored, which I love. I’m a romance kind of girl. It explored his relationship with Patroclus, Briseis, and also Troilus. Acheanus said that when Achilles spent an entire night in the temple of Apollo experiencing tantric sex with Troilus, that the stars in the heavens shone more brightly- because they wanted to lean in and spy. How beautiful.

Acheanus and Briseis sometimes explored movement, which, as I have said, I adore and think should be a bigger part of art and life. Through movement they expressed the sexual relationships of Achilles, and also a bit of violence. It was truly beautiful to watch their bodies interact with each other, the rhythm, and gravity onstage.

 

If I had one criticism I suppose it would be that of the role of Thetis in the beginning. She was, of course, serving as the inspiring goddess as happens in great artistic works, though it is perhaps unusual to have Thetis herself instead of a Muse. She was inspiring Acheanus to do this. However, she was not only inspiring him, but forcing him. Now, this is understandable. Sometimes the gods force one to take actions such as this. And with a goddess of the sea, this can be particularly tempestuous. Yet her anger was so emphasized early on I found myself losing connection with her character- I would hope for a goddess to be slightly more enlightened than to focus so on her own anger. But, well, I suppose we all become lost in our emotions, do we not? Sometimes we all identify so heavily with our emotions that we think we are them, and that they are neverending, and that our wrath may be visited upon others. It is just that I felt no divine connection to the goddess at that point. Later, it would improve- I would feel more empathy for her as I watched her play with her child son and lament his death.

I enjoyed that the actors played with the idea that divinity is jealous of mortality. The immortal is jealous of the mortal, who, having such frail bodies in a single short lifetime, feel everything very, very strongly. This is true of all of us, who have immortal souls in mortal bodies. This is a daily reality, which I felt touched by as I watched the artistic exploration.

I felt touched by a great deal of this play. Why, by the end, I could not really stop myself from crying. No matter how many times one has read the Iliad in English or Greek, it is so much different to see actors reenact events onstage. It is so much more real. To see as the fabled war from those thousands of years ago is played out again in all its terrible bittersweet tragedy, to see as a goddess mother loses her beautiful boy, to see as an old king comes to beg a young man for the body of his son, to see as lovers love so strongly and then lose. I thank everyone involved in this play for making this possible. I recommend this play to anyone and wish there were more like it.