Sassistas! Our dish on the social soup.

Meredith Monk

"Moving in new directions may be a theme for turning 60!" suggested PEACEsista in a comment to yesterday's post about Flannista's aging, arthritic left knee.

Moving in new directions does indeed describe the work of Meredith Monk, an American composer, performer, vocalist, filmmaker, choreographer, Buddhist and Zen practicioner. Click here to visit Monk's official website. Monk's (who is 71 and hopes to be working until the day she dies) expertise and elegance in so many disciplines is truly inspiring, particularly for Flann, who is about to enter her sixth decade and is fueled by the same joys and disciplines that fuel Monk.

Today is the eve of the Feast of the Ascension, which in the Christian church commemorates the bodily ascension of Jesus into heaven.  What better day to post the above video featuring excerpts from Meredith Monk's composition, "Songs of Ascension." I first purchased this CD in September 2011, after Amazon had recommended it to me based on my prior purchases. Truth be told, after the first listen, I concluded that Meredith Monk, like Laurie Anderson, was an acquired taste. "People don't always know what to make of the work [referring to all of Monk's compositions]," said the Washington Post. "Some people find it utterly simplistic, others become adoring fans. Few remain ambivalent."

Last week, the Sassistas! became adoring fans.

Before getting into the details of last week, here are a few more details about the above video. I know that it is long (10 minutes), but again, it is excerpts from the complete hour-long "Songs of Ascension" composition. If you watch it, you will either love it or hate it.  It was performed in the Ann Hamilton Tower which was "fundamentally conceived as a performance space". Ann Hamilton is herself a visual artist moving in new directions. Click here to access Hamilton's website.

Now to last week.

Matissta called and asked if I would like to attend a "Creative Dialogue" entitled, "Considering the Human Condition: On Behalf of Nature" featuring someone she had never heard of before: Meredith Monk. I vaguely recalled that I had Monk's "Songs of Ascension" in my iTunes Library. I said to Matissta, "She's an acquired taste, but let's go."

The discussion featuring Monk and three others, including two scientists, was fascinating and inspired the Sassistas! to attend Monk's latest performance piece and composition, "On Behalf of Nature" last Saturday at the University of Maryland. Flannista also purchased three more Monk CDs, Mercy; impermanence, a reaction recording following the sudden death of her longtime partner; and Monk Mix: remixes and interpretations of Meredith Monk songs compiled by admirers (including Bjork) to celebrate her 40-year anniversary as a songwriter.

About the performance of "On Behalf of Nature", the Washington Post said:

If nature were to rise up and speak in defense of itself, its voice might sound like a Meredith Monk theater piece. That was the goal of Monk’s new work, “On Behalf of Nature,” presented at the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center on Saturday night. The path-forging choreographer-composer-artist created the piece — theater without words, dance with voice — to embody “nonhuman entities” communicating through her as a spokesperson.

Monk is wise to prefer abstraction over narrative, aura over character, symbolism over clear meaning, which allows the viewer to map her work onto his or her own thoughts and perceptions. Various ideas arose in my mind in reaction to the movements of Monk and seven collaborators, three of whom also played the array of instruments to one side of the stage: tree-branch arms waving in the wind, ants marching in rows, aboriginal dances both anxious and joyously whoop-filled, a couple lost in admiration of an open vista, waves crashing on a shore.

The Sassistas! were completely enraptured by the performance which was more a meditation than a narrative, and stayed afterwards for Monk's Q&A. She possesses a generous spirit and gentle sense of humor and shared that perhaps the most freeing and pivotal moment in her creativity was when she realized that the human voice truly was an instrument and not dependant on lyrics. Indeed, at times during Saturday's performance, it was hard to tell what sounds were instruments and what sounds were voices. It was spellbinding.

"I somehow sensed when I was a teenager that I wanted to do my own work," says Monk in a quote I found on-line. "I was quite clear that I didn't want to be an interpretive kind of artist. I had an intuition about wanting to create my own form, in one way or another, whatever that would be."

Whatever that form would be -- even when she didn't or doesn't know, Monk seems to patiently -- and fiercely -- follow where it leads.  Why?  "I think of it as an offering," she says. "An offering."

If anyone in the sassosphere would like a copy of "Songs of Ascension", please let the Sassistas! know and Flannista will be grateful to provide you with a copy.

Communing with Saints

 

It is not sufficient any longer to listen at the end of a wire to the rustlings of galaxies; it is not enough even to examine the great coil of DNA in which is coded the very alphabet of life. These are our etended perceptions. But beyond lies the great darkness of the ultimate Dreamer, who dreamed the light and the galaxies. Before act was, or substance existed, imagination grew in the dark. -- Loren Eiseley

 

"Imagination grew in the dark."

The dark. The rustlings of galaxies. Is this the home of saints? The echoes of saints? When I step out on my back deck at night; when I hear the wind sighing through trees, passing me by, is imagination growing? Is that the ultimate Dreamer I hear? Or is that you, beloved sister, Karen? Or you, beloved friends, Kathy and Gwendolyn? Wait, that's you, isn't it Agnes or Genevieve? Wait, are you there, Momista?

Over the weekend, Flannista shared with Matissta and barista that lately, she spends a lot of time talking with her "communion of saints" during her daily walks.  "What do you mean by that?" asked Matiss.

"What I mean is that I talk to beloveds who have died about things; for example, I find myself talking to Momista about you. I ask her stuff -- advice, etc."

"Does she answer you?" asked Matiss.

"Yes and no. I don't actually hear her voice, but when I tell her you're going through a hard time, I do feel like she's listening, but it's not like she's telling me specifically what to do or anything."

I've only had to experience six significant deaths in my six decades of life which, compared to some friends, isn't many at all.  Three of those deaths were, in my opinion, premature: Karen was 46, Kathy was 50 and Gwendolyn was 55.  And three of those deaths were not premature, per se, but still so sad: Agnes was 98, Genevieve was 91, Momista was 85. When I talk with these beloveds, I picture the younger beloveds/saints on one side of a large room and the older ones on the other -- like a Supreme Court in the round.

I express anger toward and solicit advice from both groups. I express anger toward the younger ones for not taking better care of their bodies; for example, for not eating better or for not seeing a doctor sooner when bewildering, and even ominous, physical symptoms first appeared. The older ones piss me off mostly because I think they died before I was able to learn everything I needed to from them. 

So I walk, get out the anger, then I talk.

-- "Karen, are you still running, because every time I dream about you, you are running, but you are running past me. You peer back at me, but don't ever stop and talk to me."

-- "Kathy, you died right after your dream came true about earning an MFA in poetry. Are you pissed that six months after you got your degree, you died?"

-- "Gwendolyn, you say don't wait to write what you need to write . . . I hear you. I keep trying. How can you help me? It's a serious question. Are you watching me? What are you able to do from where you are? Breathe a little imagination my way? Or is that the role of the elders?"  

-- "Genevieve, you didn't start painting until you were in your late sixties; then you also did basket weaving and knitting and read every novel by Anthony Trollope."

-- "Agnes, you danced until you died."

-- "Momista, you knew more about movies than I did."

If I asked each one of my beloveds to breathe some imagination and discipline my way, would it be like the flutter of a butterfly wing in China catching a jet stream over North America and wafting over my back deck one night when I'm peering up at the dark? I would take a small breath and inhale the creative imagination of a communion of saints?

I've heard about the thin veil that separates the sensible realms -- the physical universe; from the angelic realms -- the cosmic universe. I don't think I'm crazy when I commune with my saints or even pray for them and ask them to pray for me.  I miss them and sense they miss me.  So I will continue to talk to them. I will continue to wait for their soft breezes upon my cheek -- their spirits passing by; their breaths inspiring my imagination.

 

 

 

Chicken Little 2013

If you plan to be outdoors around 2 pm EST today, you might want to wear a helmet.

According to Reuters:

A newly discovered asteroid about half the size of a football field will pass nearer to Earth than any other known object of its size on Friday [today], giving scientists a rare opportunity for close-up observations without launching a probe.

At its closest approach, which will occur at 2:24 p.m. EST/1924 GMT, the asteroid will pass about 17,200 miles (27,520 km) above the planet traveling at 8 miles (13 km) per second, bringing it nearer than the networks of television and weather satellites that ring the planet.

Although Asteroid 2012 DA14 is the largest known object of its size to pass this close, scientists say there is no chance of an impact, this week or in the foreseeable future.

Whatever.  The Sassistas! think this asteroid ought to have a formal name.  Any sassgestions?

 

 

 

 

Starr Saphir

Sad news, beloveds.

Starr Saphir, the bird-watching guide in New York City's Central Park for nearly four decades died a week ago today from complications of breast cancer.  

The Sassistas! first encountered Starr at last year's SilverDOCS Film Festival when she was featured in the documentary, "Birders: The Central Park Effect".  She did not hide that she was struggling with breast cancer, and there was something about her quiet spunk that made anyone who encountered her believe that she would be guiding birders for at least two more decades. Her New York Times obituary revealed that Starr:

. . . identified her first bird 67 years ago and began leading the tours in the 1970s. She became an institution among birders because of her avian acuity and eagerness to share observations and knowledge. But she was the first to acknowledge that the star of the show was not her, despite the nickname Starr, which she acquired as a girl and kept from an earlier career as an actress. (Her given name was Muriel.) The real star, she said, was Central Park.

Major flyways converge over the city, making the 843 acres of the park an oasis for migrating birds eager for a green place to rest and feed. More than 280 bird species have been identified in the park. Birders mention it along with places like the Everglades and Yosemite National Park as a birding mecca . . . .

Ms. Saphir, who left 80 notebooks of her daily sightings, identified 259 species in the park.

Click here to read the complete obituary.

In her lifetime, Starr counted 2,582 different species of birds.  What a beautiful way to make life count.

 

The Art of Physics

 

Last summer, Flannista was hired to direct the creative for a fund-raising initiative for the development department of a large non-profit scientific organization. The initiative included creating a tagline (to serve as a "rallying cry" for potential donors) and a direct mail package as well as an accompanying video and an e-blast directing recipients to the development website featuring the video and reinforcing the overall fund-raising message. 

The specific purpose of the video was to "inspire viewers" about what Flannista called "the art of physics" and prompt them to donate money to the organization's history and student programs. Following the creative session which produced the tagline, I received an email from a participant about the Higgs boson or "God Particle" discovered on July 4 that CERN physicists believe "is responsible for all the mass in the universe". About a week after this astounding discovery, one of these physicists "sonified" the Higgs boson by turning the energies of the particle collisions into musical notes. The resulting composition was lovely.

A day-long shoot resulting in 2.5 hours of raw footage that Flannista and her editor had to reduce to three "inspiring" minutes about "the art of physics" presented a huge challenge. We had shot on a green screen so we could "boost" the somewhat dry interviews with compelling images. But what about the music?

Flann wondered if those CERN physicists would be open to giving her permission to use the Higgs boson music for this fund-raising video. Further, how much would they charge for its use because original music for a three-minute video usually costs at least $5,000.00?  My budget for original music was a big fat zero. I tracked down the email address of the chief physicist (and composer) and sent him a request, explaining the project.  I was told ahead of time that this scientist NEVER answers email and not to be surprised if I never heard from him.

Within two hours, I received not only a reply from him but complete permission to use the music -- at no charge -- in the fund-raising video featured in this post. Needless to say, it was a major coup and provided "the icing on the cake" of what Flannista believes is a very inspiring video. What's more, the CERN scientist and composer loves it, too.

Enjoy.

 

Maybe I Will Again

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,

and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

 

One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

 

a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

 

so they were, in part at least, golden.  I

 

held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us

 

as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,

 

but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.

 

The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.

 

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

 

                                    -- "Snow Geese" by Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early

Yesterday, the Sassistas! and treesta journeyed to Prime Hook National Wildlife Refuge with the hopes of taking in the breathtaking phenomenon of hundreds of thousands of migrating snow geese either settling into their winter habitat or resting along the way. In 1998, Flannista had witnessed the stunning occurrence of wave after wave of snow geese landing in the refuge in huge swirls of white tornadoes. Flann learned later that day from a refuge naturalist that the snow geese uncannily show up every year the day after Thanksgiving.  "How they know it's the day after Thanksgiving is a mystery to me," she had said. For years, Flannista had been determined to share this mystery with her beloveds.

The image at the top of this post was captured yesterday by Matissta after two swirls of snow geese landed. We were amazed, of course, and waited for more. None arrived. We spotted an eagle at the top of a distant tree. We saw heron, egrets, Canadian geese and waited and waited. No more snow geese arrived. A conservationalist passing in a truck told us that we probably wouldn't see more. "The marshes are all mostly salt water now," he said. "We haven't seen snow geese in those numbers for at least five or six years."

Flannista was crushed.  As Mary Oliver writes, "something wonderful" had touched me years earlier, and I wanted it to touch others. Furthermore, I wanted to put more distance between me and Thanksgiving Day. Although the meal and company had been wonderful, my mother's sudden medical emergency that day and an unexpected and remote communication from a departed friend had left me disheartened. Seeing hundreds and thousand of snow geese would lift my spirits.

Seeing only hundreds of snow geese seemed to dampen my spirits more. I was sad and surly the whole way home . . . until later in the day when I saw Matissta's photos of Primehook and the ones treesta posted on Facebook.  "What a beautiful day we had," I thought.  

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere, once again see hundreds of thousands of snow geese, but what I did see was what matters.  I saw what was right in front of me -- salt marshes, egrets, herons, geese, an eagle, two beloveds. I saw them, as through the veil. I saw them secretly, joyfully, clearly.

So much beauty. Maybe today, I will see it again. 

 

 

Frankenstorm

The Northeastern and Mid-Atlantic areas of United States

are in there somewhere, at least at the time of this writing.  

Who knows what will be there on Wednesday . . .

 

Sit or Hover?

"It's small.  It's colorful. It's simple. It's smooth. It protects."  

A .44 magnum bullet? A 9 mm Lugar Parabellum bullet? A .22 long rifle rifle bullet? 

No, ladies and gentlemen.  We're talkin' tampons; specifically "U by Kotex" with its trademark "Click" applicator. Listen for the "click" and poise for insertion.  But should you sit or hover?  Great minds and bottoms need to know, and as Matissta pointed out breathlessly over the weekend:

The instructions are NOT clear!!!!!

Even in Spanish or French or German or Swahili, the instructions take no "stand" on sitting or hovering (see the image on the right to see the difference between sitting and hovering).

So the Sassistas! need your advice (though, to be honest, Flannista no longer needs these things). Sit or hover?  Perhaps another verb?  Please let us know ASAP as Matissta is in some distress.

Thank you.

Vedauwoo

Yesterday, PEACEsista and Flannista hiked the Turtle Rock Trail at Vedauwoo, "an area of rocky outcrops" near Cheyenne. As PEACE wrote in a comment on yesterday's post:

It was such a beautiful walk, at the peak of fall color in the mountains. Here in the west that means YELLOW, but the quaking aspens were stunning and shimmered brilliantly beside the dark green pines. The biggest surprise came at the end of the hike . . .

The photos in this post are of the surprise -- a mother moose and her calf. Flann took these photos from PEACE's car.  The animals watched us as much as we were watching them, long enough for the calf to decide to set for a spell.

 

Immortality

Yesterday, the Sassistas! took a look at how Christopher Hitchens "approached" death. Today, we take a glimpse at how Rev. Janice Robinson -- an Episcopal priest who died this past September 2, 11 months after being diagnosed with breast cancer -- "approached" death. 

I did not know Rev. Robinson personally, but heard her preach twice and she was (no exaggerating) a female Dr. Martin Luther King.  Her words and her conviction were mesmerizing.   Prior to becoming a priest, she "set out on a vocational path as healer, communicator, team-builder and change-agent, first as a nurse, then as a therapist and health care administrator." Click here to read her stunning obituary. 

The Bishop of the Diocese of Washington, Mariann Budde, wrote the following about Janice:

Just as Janice and I were beginning the conversation about the next chapter of her leadership [Janice had retired in 2009], she was diagnosed with breast cancer. At first, it was little more than a nuisance, a distraction from her true work. As complications and reactions to treatment delayed what was sure to be a full recovery, she kept her outward demeanor calm and confident. Internally she began to wrestle with the deeper spiritual questions that serous illnesses raise. Then came a second cancer [ovarian] diagnosis, requiring more aggressive treatment, and more complications.  

Thus the narrative of her illness became primary, her unwelcome yet unavoidable life's work. And she embraced it with characteristic honesty and courage, sharing with us her insights and struggles in prayer. Reading through her CaringBridge entries from the beginning, I am at once in awe and heart-broken. Consider this passage from May 28th: 

What does Jesus mean when he says, "Abide in my word. Whatever you ask of me, I will give you." I am convinced I do not understand this. I am sure that thousands of people, who have abided in his word, to the best of their ability, and have asked to be cured of cancer, and they were not. I cannot find an instance of Jesus making a promise that was not kept. I need enlightenment. The other is harder still, and please understand that I am not asking this one because of some news I have received, nor surmised, but it is an important one. How do you prepare to die? I don't mean all of the legal documents, wills, advance directives, Power of Attorney deals, etc. Berit [her partner of 24 years] and I have done all of those things, but I mean spiritually, and emotionally. I really would appreciate any feedback any of you would care to share with Berit and me.

In her next post, she thanked all those who responded:

Thank you so much for being willing to engage with me in exploring the questions I am wrestling with. Thank you for the reminder that allowing myself to fall into the arms of our Lord is the best place to be, and that his time is not my time, nor is his way my way. The profound truth of these things are at times too wonderful to comprehend. Thanks also for pushing me in my journey into these questions, and reminding me that perhaps we are never so close to God as when we ask the questions.  

The arc of her illness seemed never-ending as we lived through it, but in retrospect it all happened so fast. How could one so full of life have her life taken from her? How is it possible that Janice Robinson will never again, on this side of heaven, greet us with a smile, a word of courage or exhortation, or a reminder of God's grace and mystery? 

"We are never so close to God as when we ask the questions".  Could it also be that we are never so close to who we are meant to be when we ask the questions?