Well, it's all done by halves, isn't it? Or it can be.
The buzzer has been half fixed - that is, we can buzz people up, but we can't talk to them or listen to them, and it's so quiet downstairs that the uninitiated sometimes they don't know they're being "buzzed" in. So they stand there, agog, waiting. But thanks to cell phone technology my knees have been spared the extra trips to fetch my clients - much appreciated!
We have hot water (just in time for 100+ degree summer days!), but we think it was achieved by the one remaining less-than-qualified fix-it guy now-with-missing-finger cranking up the heat on the water heater. Colin was scalded by water over 138 degrees warm yesterday while doing dishes. Apparently this is a cheaper solution than fixing the boiler as needed.
There are lids on the garbage cans! Alas, not enough cans, and the folks living here haven't entirely caught up with the idea yet, either. not to mention youc an't tell the recycle ones from the others. So trash is piling up on TOP of them. Sigh.
The one thing done whole - we got a WHOLE new knob on our apartment door! And it hasn't fallen off since! We still look at it, feel its brassy-steeliness in our sweaty hands and say, "Wow."
..aaaand one step back. As compensation, mark that last one "half" again. We haven't gotten mail in a week. Rumor has it the mail carrier doesn't have a key to the building any more.
But we (caved) gave the landlord half our rent due. As a gesture of "good will."
That's a gesture, not a sincere feeling, note.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Know anyone with fibro who feels well?
Well, guys, I'm writing a book. I've never done this before, but every day someone does something for the first time and at least some of them go well.
For it to have a subject, (or something to say, at least,) I need people who have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, who now feel well and are willing to share their stories.
I'm looking for variety - people who've tried various things, of differing ages, who've ultimately had varying contributing pathologies, differing racial background...basically anyone who's willing to talk with me. They can choose to remain anonymous if they wish.
I'll be doing preliminary interviews over the phone - maybe 30 minutes - and may call again or even visit some in person, where possible.
That's the basic idea.
Anyway please comment (include an email address) if you're one of those people or can guide me to one!
Thanks!
For it to have a subject, (or something to say, at least,) I need people who have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, who now feel well and are willing to share their stories.
I'm looking for variety - people who've tried various things, of differing ages, who've ultimately had varying contributing pathologies, differing racial background...basically anyone who's willing to talk with me. They can choose to remain anonymous if they wish.
I'll be doing preliminary interviews over the phone - maybe 30 minutes - and may call again or even visit some in person, where possible.
That's the basic idea.
Anyway please comment (include an email address) if you're one of those people or can guide me to one!
Thanks!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Elephant On My foot
“It doesn’t look pretty , but it doesn’t have any sugar, any alcohol, any chocolate, or any gluten in it, so fuckin’ Eat it!”
Such was the little Pep Talk I was giving myself while cooking an innocent omelette this morning. I used to like omelettes. But today is the first day of what may be a very long lifetime of omelettes - living without sugar, wheat, gluten, oats, alcohol, dairy, and a whole bunch of other things I really liked. Amazing how much the sexy omelette loses its appeal when you think you may see nothing but for breakfast for the rest of your life.
I tossed Colin’s plate to him in bed. “It’s not pretty…” I started.
Noted: Maybe I shouldn’t have started a major change in diet simultaneously with PMSing. I’ve always thought dieting is like monogamy. It’s like, now you can see that chocolate cake and the sweet, juicy mango and the candy corn on the other side of the kitchen, but you can’t have any. Some days it’s easier than others.
“…so fuckin’ eat it!” Colin is a smart lad. He shows no outward sign of having any problem with the omelette. In fact,the sausage on the side is a bonus as far as he is concerned.
A few hours later, I visit a friend who’s recently done a juice cleanse. She has some left over. It doesn’t have any sugar, alcohol, wheat, etc… in it, so I figure what the hell. By three o-clock my stomach is doing flip flops.
Despite the fact I feel I’ve over-stayed anybody’s welcome in her office, I email my Nutripath. For the last 45 minutes of our 2 and a half hour appointment this week, there was another patient waiting. It just takes that long to get through my health history.
That, and she has personal questions, like what was my role in my family? Does anyone have a 10 second answer for that? Maybe they should be my guru. Then she starts asking about goals, and personal and professional success, and fear of failure and fear of success. I found myself babbling, at something of a loss.
And it wasn’t until after I left the office that I thought, well, of course. Asking me, or anybody else with chronic pain about visions for their future is like asking somebody who has an elephant standing on their foot what they want for breakfast.
I don’t care what I have for breakfast. Right now I just want this elephant to stop standing my foot.
Thus I might have answered. But I have a writer’s mind; I think of these things when it is time to write, not when it is time to speak, and so my Nutripath still thinks I have a fear of success. Or failure. Or something.
We’re hitting it hard. I’m a little sore because I’ve hit it hard before – the anti- yeast diet, the gluten free diet, the separate-your-carbs-from-your-proteins diet… But I’ve never done it like this. I’ve never put in stuff while I’m taking stuff out. As advised by a professional. This time, at the same time I cut out the wheat, gluten, yeast, etc….I’m adding in a really good probiotic, colloidal silver, some herbal tea from the amazon, and possibly some antioxidants, if I tolerate them.
I have equal belief that is will harm me as that it may help, because, well , that’s been my experience. But as long as there’s one iota of chance that it could relieve me of the dizzying array of wild and crazy illnesses which migrate like gypsies through my body on no particularly organized rotation, I’m willing to give it a try.
I thought one of the hardest parts to staying on this regime would be Colin. Raised only three hours from New Orleans, Colin likes sugar. And dairy, and fat, and everything tasty and nice. He likes his ice cream before bed routine, his cookies after meals routine, and wheat crackers and cheese in between.
But Colin has been demonstrating his skills as an empath. When he needs a snack that’s vorboten to me, he’s been kindly shoveling it into his mouth in the kitchen while I’m in the living room. And to my surprise, he’s actually been eating – and liking- the food I prepare for myself. He had to keep himself form eating all the nutty rice crackers so there would be some left for me. He has no issues with switching to goat cheese, and the shepherd’s pie was a big hit.
I’m left with the daunting task of continual food activity. I spend most of my day preparing what I eat, shopping for what I eat, thinking about what I’m going to eat, writing down what I eat, cleaning up what i've prepared to eat and eating what I eat. In some respects a detail oriented closeted anal retentive individual, I do not enjoy being anal retentive about food. The Dali Lama said we should eat and love with abandon, and that’s always been my motto, too.
But I want the elephant to stop standing on my foot. I’ve tried hitting it, coaxing it, and ignoring it. I’ve called in specialists and trainers of all shapes and sizes. I’ve X-rayed, MRI’ed, yoga-ed, P.T.- ed, scoped and shocked it. So far nothing has worked.
I don’t have any more time to write. Gotta drink my Spirutein.
P.S. Playing the role of an OB-gyne in a reading tonight. Always wanted to be able to examine myself to save the trips.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Super Delegates for Hillary!
The folks who create these videos call them selves Brooklyn Vs. Bush and I met them at a green party event a couple months ago.
They talked me into showing up for one of their weekly filming parties, asking only that I try not to wear green.
I learned gradually throughout the evening: The videos are filmed in an extra bedroom on a third floor apartment on Court Street. Actors (or whoever shows up) are filmed in front of a green screen (thus, the "green" rule) on a carpet about 3 feet deep and 5 feet wide. You get a script, and while you look at it maybe some costume pieces and a stiff drink. And, at some point, dinner.
The folks who showed up made me feel squeaky brand new and naive. Salty actors from the days in New York when here were tons of strip joints on 42nd Street, they chain smoked and puzzled over their lines while downing a whiskey on ice. They prefer to do tis kind of work, they say, to working for Disney, which has pretty much taken over Broadway.
I was part of one video which hasn't been edited yet. You'll be the first to know. Unless I'm royally embarrassed!
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Social Reasons
Spring has replaced fall as my favorite season since moving to New York. My neighborhood is resplendent with blooming dogwoods, pink and white, tulip bulbs in a rainbow of colors and the more subtle hues of wine-colored leaves against red brick homes and iron railings.
Really, it’s the only time this place looks good. By the time summer arrives I’m too hot to appreciate anything. No, this is the best time. Hundreds of people in Prospect Park, sauntering through the farmers' market, buying newly dead fish, organic meats, green herbs and fresh loaves of bread and stuffing them in the now-popular canvas “green bag.” A group of younglings plays Ultimate frisbee on the green, mothers follow toddlers around on the grass, birds set up a discordant chorus in the trees, squirrels beg and lovers sit on the bench and neck.
I love this time of year especially because the days are long, but one isn’t longing for the sun to go down to dispel the heat. I love that when I leave for an 8pm show, it’s still light out. I did that last night. My friend Brenda (who, oddly, I discovered was in my high school home room in Wisconsin and we have absolutely no memory of one another) choreographed and performed in a dance piece on 14th street.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen real live dancers on stage. It may have been Brenda’s last show, in fact. It was fun to watch how her style has matured. While many of the works expressed clear stories of individual love, rage or outrage, Brenda’s was a fluid ensemble piece, expressing nuances of the music and the dancer’s bodies.
And I think, that’s just it, isn’t it? Almost everyone I know in town is entertaining some sort of major career crisis, thinking of getting out of the arts, wondering if the sacrifice is worth it, asking themselves, “why do I do this?” And coming up with a variety of answers.
In my second year at DePaul, my teacher had all her students in her office for a little chat. She asked each of us to answer this very question: “Why do I sing?” I’d actually been giving that some hard thought already. When it came my turn I hesitated. “I think…I think I do it for social reasons,” I said.
I could tell my answer displeased her. Something crossed over her face which was dark and uninterpretable. I think she wanted – or expected- something more insightful from me. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the choice of words. I might have elaborated.
Last night in one of the dance pieces, (which I think was about the Salem witch trials, but I'm not entirely sure) there was a chair. A metal folding chair, which always sends chills up my spine when I see on stage. Too many accidents waiting to happen.
Well, I needn’t have worried. First of all, the smart dancers always used the edge of the chair, keeping it from folding on itself. But also – and this is the Thing – there were always a dancer or two placed cleverly at the back edge of the chair, doing their choreography while subtly holding on to it.
This is what I mean by “social reasons.” It’s the little things you do, when performing, to take care of one another. The clear knowledge that we fly or sink together, all one interdependent unit which can easily break down without the cooperation of even one member. Or one body part of one member.
I remember one show I did where a guy in the cast was experiencing a major medical mental meltdown. He wasn’t sure he could go on stage. I promised him I would stay behind the set in a certain place when I could, and when his blocking allowed him to, he would come back and hold his hand out, just enough so I could grasp it. He clung to my hands like a drowning man. He got through the night.
There’s the way theater people move around one another in cramped quarters backstage. There’s an internal dance behind every production, moving bodies out of the way of moving sets and curtains and rigging and one another exiting and entering, an automatic turning aside of bodies, a light step for quiet, words whispered, or said without saying. Polite. Professional. Caring.
And quite frankly, it annoys me that other people don’t move with the same swiftness and dexterity on the sidewalk in the city, in the home or in the restaurant or in the store.
I was once in an opera where I was in a dozen consecutive scenes, each with a different, late 19th century costume. They were gorgeous. But the costumer felt the stage in that theater was too close to the audience to allow for anything unauthentic in the dresses, like oh, zippers or Velcro instead of fifty teensy buttons up the back.
The first dress rehearsal was a complete disaster. The costumer’s assistant had no idea what she was doing. The domino effect was of epic proportions – there was absolutely no room in the music for more than 30 seconds of changing time. I didn’t come on stage, the lights came up, my musical cue came up, no one sang, so no one sang after that, the conductor kept waving her arms in desperation, trying to coordinate the people left on stage, her job made more impossible by 20th Century scoring. Everyone just had to stop.
What it came down to? The entire show had absolute reliance on the costumer’s assistant.
Performing creates an intense sense of belonging, one which helps me understand completely why when people serve together in the military, all they want to do is sit around and share war stories. Because it recalls that sense of being an important part of a unit.
Of course your life isn’t technically on the line when you’re performing – usually, though of course there are exceptions – but try convincing your brain of that! We are all hard-wired to respond intensely to being observed, to peer pressure, to a tribal mentality of cooperation and trust. Try purposely screwing up in front of an audience of 600 – I can’t physically make myself do it. Could you?
And that’s what I think I miss about performing, as I haven’t been doing much of it at all lately. It’s “social reasons.” I’ve discovered into my thirties that I’m not really very interested in performing alone – I’m an ensemble player, be that in a band, a choir, an opera or a musical. And of course the question which follows is: Can one find that in another line of work which demands less sacrifice?
Sure, it’s possible. I think what’s important is recognizing what it is about what you do which enriches you and feeds your will to live. I like to be a functioning part of a unit, with something to contribute which is unique. My situation is, of course, complicated by the need for regular breaks and ten hours of sleep, a heart condition and such, but surely a choice is there if I should decide to grab it.
I went to Fibromyalgia support meeting last week (perhaps a mistake, as, in just being around all of them my pain levels spiked…) and I told them I was a massage therapist. There was a puzzled pause. “Wait – which do you have, fibro or CFIDs? “ one asked. I told them for what it was worth, I’d been diagnosed with both. There was a collective gasp. “And you do this kind of work????”
Although I argue with the characterization of people with these diseases being incapable of physical labor, and allow for differences in individuals, I’d still do well to perform a reality check and think that both my performing and massage days may be numbered. I am considered extraordinarily functional for someone in my place physically, and I thank many a wonderful hands-on therapist for that, but that work does not come free, and the budget for it would come much more easily on a better salary.
My friends and acquaintances are leaving show business in droves….leaving non-profits for capitalist ventures, leaving directing to have babies, leaving electrician work to go back to school, leaving stage managing to make it in real estate, to explore another life. Leaving for L.A. where there’s the possibility of residuals in film and television. Leaving for careers which are not as hard on their bodies. I see many making successful and rewarding transitions into worlds more stable and less competitive than the performing arts.
Who will take their place?
Well, more 22 year olds come every year.
Really, it’s the only time this place looks good. By the time summer arrives I’m too hot to appreciate anything. No, this is the best time. Hundreds of people in Prospect Park, sauntering through the farmers' market, buying newly dead fish, organic meats, green herbs and fresh loaves of bread and stuffing them in the now-popular canvas “green bag.” A group of younglings plays Ultimate frisbee on the green, mothers follow toddlers around on the grass, birds set up a discordant chorus in the trees, squirrels beg and lovers sit on the bench and neck.
I love this time of year especially because the days are long, but one isn’t longing for the sun to go down to dispel the heat. I love that when I leave for an 8pm show, it’s still light out. I did that last night. My friend Brenda (who, oddly, I discovered was in my high school home room in Wisconsin and we have absolutely no memory of one another) choreographed and performed in a dance piece on 14th street.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen real live dancers on stage. It may have been Brenda’s last show, in fact. It was fun to watch how her style has matured. While many of the works expressed clear stories of individual love, rage or outrage, Brenda’s was a fluid ensemble piece, expressing nuances of the music and the dancer’s bodies.
And I think, that’s just it, isn’t it? Almost everyone I know in town is entertaining some sort of major career crisis, thinking of getting out of the arts, wondering if the sacrifice is worth it, asking themselves, “why do I do this?” And coming up with a variety of answers.
In my second year at DePaul, my teacher had all her students in her office for a little chat. She asked each of us to answer this very question: “Why do I sing?” I’d actually been giving that some hard thought already. When it came my turn I hesitated. “I think…I think I do it for social reasons,” I said.
I could tell my answer displeased her. Something crossed over her face which was dark and uninterpretable. I think she wanted – or expected- something more insightful from me. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the choice of words. I might have elaborated.
Last night in one of the dance pieces, (which I think was about the Salem witch trials, but I'm not entirely sure) there was a chair. A metal folding chair, which always sends chills up my spine when I see on stage. Too many accidents waiting to happen.
Well, I needn’t have worried. First of all, the smart dancers always used the edge of the chair, keeping it from folding on itself. But also – and this is the Thing – there were always a dancer or two placed cleverly at the back edge of the chair, doing their choreography while subtly holding on to it.
This is what I mean by “social reasons.” It’s the little things you do, when performing, to take care of one another. The clear knowledge that we fly or sink together, all one interdependent unit which can easily break down without the cooperation of even one member. Or one body part of one member.
I remember one show I did where a guy in the cast was experiencing a major medical mental meltdown. He wasn’t sure he could go on stage. I promised him I would stay behind the set in a certain place when I could, and when his blocking allowed him to, he would come back and hold his hand out, just enough so I could grasp it. He clung to my hands like a drowning man. He got through the night.
There’s the way theater people move around one another in cramped quarters backstage. There’s an internal dance behind every production, moving bodies out of the way of moving sets and curtains and rigging and one another exiting and entering, an automatic turning aside of bodies, a light step for quiet, words whispered, or said without saying. Polite. Professional. Caring.
And quite frankly, it annoys me that other people don’t move with the same swiftness and dexterity on the sidewalk in the city, in the home or in the restaurant or in the store.
I was once in an opera where I was in a dozen consecutive scenes, each with a different, late 19th century costume. They were gorgeous. But the costumer felt the stage in that theater was too close to the audience to allow for anything unauthentic in the dresses, like oh, zippers or Velcro instead of fifty teensy buttons up the back.
The first dress rehearsal was a complete disaster. The costumer’s assistant had no idea what she was doing. The domino effect was of epic proportions – there was absolutely no room in the music for more than 30 seconds of changing time. I didn’t come on stage, the lights came up, my musical cue came up, no one sang, so no one sang after that, the conductor kept waving her arms in desperation, trying to coordinate the people left on stage, her job made more impossible by 20th Century scoring. Everyone just had to stop.
What it came down to? The entire show had absolute reliance on the costumer’s assistant.
Performing creates an intense sense of belonging, one which helps me understand completely why when people serve together in the military, all they want to do is sit around and share war stories. Because it recalls that sense of being an important part of a unit.
Of course your life isn’t technically on the line when you’re performing – usually, though of course there are exceptions – but try convincing your brain of that! We are all hard-wired to respond intensely to being observed, to peer pressure, to a tribal mentality of cooperation and trust. Try purposely screwing up in front of an audience of 600 – I can’t physically make myself do it. Could you?
And that’s what I think I miss about performing, as I haven’t been doing much of it at all lately. It’s “social reasons.” I’ve discovered into my thirties that I’m not really very interested in performing alone – I’m an ensemble player, be that in a band, a choir, an opera or a musical. And of course the question which follows is: Can one find that in another line of work which demands less sacrifice?
Sure, it’s possible. I think what’s important is recognizing what it is about what you do which enriches you and feeds your will to live. I like to be a functioning part of a unit, with something to contribute which is unique. My situation is, of course, complicated by the need for regular breaks and ten hours of sleep, a heart condition and such, but surely a choice is there if I should decide to grab it.
I went to Fibromyalgia support meeting last week (perhaps a mistake, as, in just being around all of them my pain levels spiked…) and I told them I was a massage therapist. There was a puzzled pause. “Wait – which do you have, fibro or CFIDs? “ one asked. I told them for what it was worth, I’d been diagnosed with both. There was a collective gasp. “And you do this kind of work????”
Although I argue with the characterization of people with these diseases being incapable of physical labor, and allow for differences in individuals, I’d still do well to perform a reality check and think that both my performing and massage days may be numbered. I am considered extraordinarily functional for someone in my place physically, and I thank many a wonderful hands-on therapist for that, but that work does not come free, and the budget for it would come much more easily on a better salary.
My friends and acquaintances are leaving show business in droves….leaving non-profits for capitalist ventures, leaving directing to have babies, leaving electrician work to go back to school, leaving stage managing to make it in real estate, to explore another life. Leaving for L.A. where there’s the possibility of residuals in film and television. Leaving for careers which are not as hard on their bodies. I see many making successful and rewarding transitions into worlds more stable and less competitive than the performing arts.
Who will take their place?
Well, more 22 year olds come every year.
Monday, April 7, 2008
2002
It's been exactly six years since I left my first sublet in NYC, figuring I was going back to Chicago for good. Or until I had the next better idea.
I had just had my first date with Colin. Though i didn't know it, I was soon to embark on my first real regional theater gig. I was driving the same car I have now. I was taking five prescription medications a day.
Some of you traveled with me via the old "email" method of blogging (I didn't really know that's what it was and still kinda prefer it that way, but alas we must all evolve...) and I thank you from the bottom of my gut for being someones to laugh with me at the ridiculousness of it all.
Yesterday I got word that my new MacBook Pro, which I got for Christmas from my Dad, needs to go bye-bye, to the rehab spa for computers. "I'm actually surprised it boots up at all," said the mac genius who was helping me. "I'd advise you to back everything up as soon as you can, and get it back in for repairs." He wrote down a number for me and sent me on my way.
I picture my computer forgetting everything at the spa - maybe it's in Arizona, under a hot, dry sun - and among those things are all those tasty memories of my first days in NYC. I backed everything up as best I can today. And came across those old Word Perfect files which barely even function on my new operating system.
I decided it's time to start the process I've been meaning to get to - slowly bringing all those stories to a new birth in the land of Blog.
I don't know if those signed up with Feedblitz will necessarily get a new feed every time I make a new entry dated way back to 2002. If so, I hope it's not too annoying. They'll probably come in small clumps.
If you want to look for them, they'll be appearing here. Look for them by date on the right hand side of the blogger page. Starting with "2002."
Please let me know if you know something I don't to make the whole process funner and easier.
And thanks for reading.
Niki
I had just had my first date with Colin. Though i didn't know it, I was soon to embark on my first real regional theater gig. I was driving the same car I have now. I was taking five prescription medications a day.
Some of you traveled with me via the old "email" method of blogging (I didn't really know that's what it was and still kinda prefer it that way, but alas we must all evolve...) and I thank you from the bottom of my gut for being someones to laugh with me at the ridiculousness of it all.
Yesterday I got word that my new MacBook Pro, which I got for Christmas from my Dad, needs to go bye-bye, to the rehab spa for computers. "I'm actually surprised it boots up at all," said the mac genius who was helping me. "I'd advise you to back everything up as soon as you can, and get it back in for repairs." He wrote down a number for me and sent me on my way.
I picture my computer forgetting everything at the spa - maybe it's in Arizona, under a hot, dry sun - and among those things are all those tasty memories of my first days in NYC. I backed everything up as best I can today. And came across those old Word Perfect files which barely even function on my new operating system.
I decided it's time to start the process I've been meaning to get to - slowly bringing all those stories to a new birth in the land of Blog.
I don't know if those signed up with Feedblitz will necessarily get a new feed every time I make a new entry dated way back to 2002. If so, I hope it's not too annoying. They'll probably come in small clumps.
If you want to look for them, they'll be appearing here. Look for them by date on the right hand side of the blogger page. Starting with "2002."
Please let me know if you know something I don't to make the whole process funner and easier.
And thanks for reading.
Niki
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