tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70725620792687213852024-03-13T05:28:58.219-07:00The Page of PossibilityKaruna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-1055075915294305602011-09-18T22:42:00.000-07:002011-09-19T01:15:40.101-07:00If you laugh when you drop it...<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-crQ-i9OMB7c/Tnbswkc7yNI/AAAAAAAAAK0/RNYKiLdr2Ro/s1600/IMG_1261.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-crQ-i9OMB7c/Tnbswkc7yNI/AAAAAAAAAK0/RNYKiLdr2Ro/s320/IMG_1261.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653966701373147346" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>My friend <a href="http://thereadpill.blogspot.com/2011/04/how-to-crack-matrix-chapter-one.html">Rif </a>has this phrase I really like: "If you laugh when you drop it, you can rock it in the process." I've used it twice in the past two days. I quoted it in an interview for my roommate's upcoming webisode. And tonight, it came up again.<div><br /></div><div>I'm going to take a moment to talk about said webisode. My amazing roommate, Larry Leong, is a martial artist/stuntman/general workout maniac. He is currently creating a show called "Move Damn You!"-- a motivational web series that is by, for, and about people who love to move. (And even if you don't like to move, you probably will by the end of each episode.) It's been very exciting watching Larry dream the whole thing up and put it into action. Seeing him take all of the things he believes in so strongly, apply them creatively, and share them with the world with his own personal pizazz has shown me a whole new side of him. Not that I didn't know this side of him existed. It's the same Larry I see every day at the breakfast table, but he is really coming into his element. I am infinitely glad that through this webisode more people will get to witness and be inspired by his quirky sense of humor, his passion for working out, and his beautiful heart which is almost as big as his biceps. Also, there will be hot, shirtless guys doing ab exercises and flips, but I digress...</div><div><br /></div><div>Being his roommate, as well as a mover, I get to be a part of the show. I have my own segment where I do interviews and rants, as well as perform movement in the background of Larry's rants. Yesterday, I filmed my very first rant. It was a really interesting experience for me because it brought me out of my comfort zone and made me (glaringly) aware of my own hangups and habits. Despite getting along famously as roommates and friends, Larry and I have extremely different ways of working -- at least in terms of this webisode. I am a perfectionist and I tend to do things over and over again, even if I probably got it close if not exactly right on the very first try (though you could never get me to admit that I got it right on the first try, being as I'm a perfectionist). From the get-go, Larry told me that for the most part, he wanted to do all of his stuff in one take. I was open to the idea. In theory.</div><div><br /></div><div>I planned my rant, wrote it, rehearsed it, and spun for a while to get in my "happy space". In other words, I did everything I could to get it perfect the first take. But for me, it always takes a few tries. Even if I am technically on the mark, I need a little time to get the jitters out and settle into myself. The first take was pretty good, in that I got through the whole thing and didn't massively mess up, but I felt I could do it better. A lot better. Watching the playback, I looked ungrounded; over-animated; "excessively actory" as Larry put it. I knew I only had a limited amount of time to do it again, since Larry was doing some crazy gymnastics that took a lot of physical exertion. Everytime I tried, I kept screwing up. And by the time I felt I was getting close, he could no longer keep up the moves. We turn the off camera, and he gave me the spiel about not thinking too much; not feeling like I had to "be perfect"; just hammering it out and being cool with whatever comes. The whole idea completely freaked me out. I'd love to be able to do it, but how could I, especially on camera, immortalized forever for the whole world to see???</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, we shot several of his rants. This shoot mostly involved spinning poi in the background while Larry did his thing. Spinning was a lot less nerve-racking for me -- not only because I was no longer the main event, but also because flow arts lend themselves to a more fluid, laid back frame of mind. The first three rants were accompanied by me spinning my glow poi, which is what we had agreed on. But doing more than three seemed redundant. I thought I could spin my water balloon poi with more, but no matter how much fill light we added, they just didn't pop on camera (no pun intended) so we nixed that idea. I said, "I could break out my juggling clubs," which Larry took a liking to.</div><div><br /></div><div>Something you should know about me: I do NOT claim to be a juggler. I know how to juggle, but it is by no means my specialty. I juggle adequately. I know couple of tricks, but nothing too fancy. And of course, being a perfectionist, I generally err on the side of "If you think you might not got it, don't flaunt it." This is something I'm working through because I know first-hand that once you take ownership of what you have, what you have -- however small it was to begin with -- grows and strengthens and causes you to do the same. So I said "What the freaking hey?" And out came the clubs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite Larry choosing the shortest rant for the club sequence, club-juggling minutes are sort of like dog years. One minute of catching clubs is equivalent to at least seven minutes of pretty much anything else. He told me from the get go that it was okay if I couldn't juggle them the whole way through; to consider this more of a "Karuna practicing in her living room" than a performance. Here was the moment when I got to put Rif's words of wisdom to the test. I dropped them pretty quickly the first time around, simultaneously stopping the roll. We tried it a couple of more times with more or less the same result. (If and when Larry does a blooper reel, there is some decently hilarious footage of me stopping and starting, stopping and starting, doing my crazy breathing/juggling/Chi-channeling techniques, then stopping and starting again.) And then I said to myself, "Do I really want this to go on all night?" My roommate would be pissed off at me, I'd be pissed off at myself, and most importantly I would not be my word. <i>If you laugh when you drop it, you can rock it in the process</i>. I had said these very words in answer to Larry's question, "What's the best advice anyone's ever given you (when it comes to to physical activity)?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Club-juggling Roommate Rant Take 3. I threw my first club in the air. The sound of me catching it was Larry's cue to begin. Larry started on his monologue. I continued to juggle. I kept them in the air for a decent amount of time. Inevitably I dropped them, but I picked them back up and started juggling again. The timing of where I stopped and restarted actually synced up nicely with Larry's lines. I juggled for a little longer before dropping them again. As I recall, the second time it happened I actually let them drop rather than scrambling to catch them when they were too far out of my reach. I started to juggle one-- throwing it casually in my hand, tossing it under my leg, and spinning it around in my fingers before adding the other two back in. At the end of his rant, I deliberately let go of one of the clubs, then did some kind of improvised flourish with one club in each hand. I did it! I got through the take. And not because I did it pitch perfect, but because I messed up; I rolled with it; I rocked it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I find this ending to the story far more rewarding than if I had gotten it spot on. Being perfect is tiring! It's also "easy" in the sense that it's a quick and comfortable default mode because you are giving the world what you think it wants to see. Being able to drop the ball -- literally or figuratively -- in front of everyone can be scary and sometimes painful, but ultimately it's a lot less effort. You don't have to hit pause-rewind-erase-rerecord. You can keep the tape rolling and just be you.</div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-50356560805665113542011-07-05T13:27:00.000-07:002011-07-05T14:00:46.268-07:00Freedom on the Fourth<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VTAO8w_LGts/ThN7M25ioVI/AAAAAAAAAKM/cP-62GO28Uc/s1600/IMG_6548.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VTAO8w_LGts/ThN7M25ioVI/AAAAAAAAAKM/cP-62GO28Uc/s320/IMG_6548.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625975820341387602" /></span></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I ended my Fourth of July with a few distant bangs perched atop this tree. I NEVER climb trees. Okay, let me rephrase that. I can’t remember the last time I climbed a tree. Here’s the story of how I got there.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It was a pretty crazy marvelous day filled with outside adventures and inner journeys. I woke up at 6 AM to watch my friend Brian run a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150220525751339.312879.681911338&l=fb60d6cde3">10K race out in San Ramon</a>. The early wake-up was a bit painful, but the picturesque drive over; the lively festivities; the poi spinning on the grassy knoll; and ESPECIALLY watching Brian win the race made it all worthwhile. After catching a snooze at home and preparing exactly 39 mushrooms – marinated in garlic, olive oil, and herbs, then roasted, stuffed with cheesy quinoa, and garnished with green olives (they turned out delicious!) – I headed over to the annual Fourth of July party held at a family friend’s lovely North Berkeley abode. My brother calls this the “rich old people’s party”, which is pretty much accurate. Not that there aren’t meaty things on the grill or young people in the mix, but it definitely has an adult vibe. The scenery is gorgeous, the conversations are sober and mature, and the food is certainly more sophisticated than the stuff you’d find at your average Fourth of July barbecue.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Aside from the good food and pleasant atmosphere, I honestly wasn’t sure how much I’d enjoy being there, since most of my life and friends are down in LA. Toward the end of the party, I actually ended up having some amazing interactions, including with an old Buddhist teacher of mine – <a href="http://www.jamesbaraz.com/">James Baraz</a>—who had led a meditation group I was in when I was 15. That whole conversation is an entry in itself. For now, I’ll <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>just say he imparted some wisdom that shed a whole new light on the way I see myself and aspire to live my life.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >That said, I returned from the party at 8 PM in a rather contemplative mood. I didn’t want to stay home all evening, since contemplation can easily turn into workaholism in my world and it was, after all, the Fourth of July. At the same time, I didn’t exactly feel like braving the masses to watch the fireworks. This was a point of inner conflict. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">love</i> the ritual of fireworks. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">love</i> the spectacle of fireworks. And unless I’m invited to some kick ass party by a friend I really like, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">always</i> watch fireworks on the Fourth of July. Up close. In the thick of it. Where you can see every sparkle and hear every bang. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t come around everyday so when it does, I like to seize it. But lately, I’ve been feeling a little more mellow; more introspective; less gung ho about doing all the things that I usually want to do because I can’t get past the idea of wanting to do them.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ideas are really strong creatures. <i>Really </i>strong. When they’re not yours, they seem rather silly. Think about it. Whenever you hear someone say, “I really like the IDEA of doing this thing, being with this person, etc.,” you think to yourself, “That person probably (by which I mean definitely) needs to ditch that idea.” But when it’s your idea, the feeling is totally different. It grabs you; it possesses you; it puts a filter on the lens through which you see everything. That’s how I feel about fireworks.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >At the same time, I have been working on restructuring my thought patterns and routines. I’d also just been imparted some words of wisdom, which included listening to the voice inside myself that knows what I really need. So I said to myself, “Let’s try a little experiment. Let’s NOT do what we do every year come hell or high water, even if it may be super scary to break our routine. The Fourth of July will come again next year and the year after that and the year after that, and we can always do the usual thing next time around.” So I ditched Plan A for Plan Be Spontaneous and headed up into the Berkeley hills to watch the sparks fly from above. I had this idea that I would go to the Lawrence Hall of Science – this kids Museum that has a breathtaking view of pretty much the entire bay. It was the perfect spot in my mind, since it had not only the view of all the fireworks in the Bay Area, but also a decent amount of parking. On top of that, I liked the symbolism of viewing the spectacle from a higher, wider-angle perspective. Direct parallel to the way I was viewing my life. In short, my plan was perfect.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I took Dwight Way from my house up the hill, passing the race track that is a popular lookout point, thinking to myself, “Those people are all scrambling for parking, but I’m going to outsmart them all!” Around Prospect, past the Cal football stadium, ready to make the turn onto the road that would lead me to Lawrence, only to find cones and officers blocking the way. Plan Be Spontaneous: FAIL!!! On to Plan See What Happens Next.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This is where I start to freak out.<i> It’s 9:30 and the fireworks are about to begin, if they haven’t started already. <span style="color:black">I'm too far to go down to the Marina, which I didn't want to do in the first place. I can't think of anywhere else that isn't going to be jam packed. And wherever I can go, provided I can think of a place in my frazzled state, I'll be lucky to find parking before the show is completely over. Fuck! I should've gone to San Francisco or the Marina and done what I always like to do because now I'm just driving around, missing out on all the fun like the biggest idiot loser I am.</span></i></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height: normal;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black">Curtain down on the inner monologue. Long story short, </span><span style="color: black; ">I remembered a park not too far from where I was that had a good view of the bay and was probably not quite as overpopulated as the rest of the lookout points. I was lucky enough to find a parking place nearby and raced out to the park. But it being dark and my memory fuzzy, I'd forgotten that the park was perched on a hill. I passed the park and walked down another hill where a small group of spectators were watching. After a few minutes of partial pyrotechnics obscured by a large tree, I decided to leave. I followed the path up to the park I originally remembered, which has a gazebo that is perfect for viewing. Unfortunately, there were so many people gathered in said gazebo, I couldn't make out almost anything. There were, however, a couple of people perched on the roof. If only I could get up to that roof...</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="line-height: 115%; color: black; ">I asked a couple of people how to get on the roof, and they told me you do it by "climbing that tree"; the tree you see at the top of this entry. Despite the fact that I was wearing tractionless boots and hadn't climbed a tree for as long as I could remember, I made my way up before I could give it a second thought. Using my <a href="http://flowtoys.com/pages.php?pageid=25#flowlightcolors">glow poi</a> as a guide, my hands and feet found the proper places to take me to the top (at least enough of the top that I could get a piece of the action). I lingered at my perch for a few moments, reveling in the joy of finally getting to see the dazzling fireworks I'd been hoping to see. I tried finding the footholds that would take me to the rooftop where I could join the elite few with the clearest view, but it was dark, the branches seemed too small, and I didn't have too much faith in my intermediate tree-climbing skills. I've always been one to aim higher than the rest; to reach for the thing that is probably beyond my reach. But I also realize that there's something to be said for doing the careful thing, especially in situations of potential physical danger. (I was particularly wary of this, having known someone my age who recently died after falling from a great height.) So tonight, I said, "I'm happy exactly where I am." True, my view was blocked by a bundle of leaves here and a bundle of leaves there, but the obstructions were minor and they were all on my terms. And I had this cozy, special little solitary nook of my own discovering and my choosing.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> This is how I want to carve my career. This is how I want to live my life. This is how I want to end my Fourth of July.</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="line-height: 115%; color: black; "><o:p> </o:p></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="line-height: 115%; color: black; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >After the show was over and I climbed back down the tree – which, before my muscle memory dug out the gymnastics techniques from my youth, resembled the kind of petrified, screeching cat fire fighters groan to fetch – I watched all the little side shows go off on various rooftops around the city. In my life, I'm finding that as dazzling and appealing as the main event might be, it's really all about the small, unexpected, forbidden moments along the way. Don't get me wrong; I'll be thrilled to walk the red carpet at the Oscars. But I treasure the crazy adventures in between -- watching <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juliet_Landau">Juliet Landau</a> embody <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blanche_DuBois">Blanche DuBois</a> at a small theater off Santa Monica Blvd.; hearing my friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taliesin_Jaffe">Taliesin Jaffee</a> channel Tom Waits/the Cookie Monster in an epic karaoke version of "Roxanne"; making discovery after discovery in a simple <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meisner_technique">Meisner</a> repeat. Speaking of which, my acting teacher <a href="http://jameseckhouseworkshop.com/">James Eckhouse</a> pushes us to make the kind of art where “you don’t know what the fuck is going to happen next”. And being as how art imitates life, I know I have to live the way I want to create. The principle is profound, but here’s the challenge. In order to make those crazy discoveries, in order to get to something entirely unexpected, you have to go through the fear and the floundering; the stalling; the freaking; the teetering moment when you completely let go of the plan. Living in that space is the scary, but it can take you to some pretty trippy places. I never imagined I’d spend the last Fourth of July of my 20s in a tree, but there I was. And somehow, it was exactly where I needed to be.</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-latin"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-35772772034759051142011-04-14T00:33:00.001-07:002011-04-14T20:42:13.938-07:00It's not a MONSTER, it's a MOMENT!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WgBkPhMnI1s/TaezMz5pn9I/AAAAAAAAAJw/YEpv6cKSjYY/s1600/IMG_5586.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WgBkPhMnI1s/TaezMz5pn9I/AAAAAAAAAJw/YEpv6cKSjYY/s320/IMG_5586.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595638094702944210" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>My friend the <a href="http://www.avatarism.org/">irReverend Alex Polinsky</a>, said this to me once. I think of these words especially in the context of shame. I hate shame. I am ashamed of shame. I just want it to go away and be replaced by happy things; fuzzy things; deep things; sexy things; <i>any</i>thing other than IT!!! But here's the flipside of shame. Shame is like oobleck. It's just another substance to stick your hands in and explore. And if the idea of how gross it might be or how horrible it might feel inside your fingernails doesn't send you twitching and squirming and running the other way, you might actually learn from it; shape it; own it; have FUN with it!<div><br /></div><div>This is what I tell myself at the Westwood Coffee Bean were I'm winding down from this whole crazy experience that has left me reeling from wonder, excitement, and -- yes -- a good sprinkling of shame. My past self, not an hour before, is standing outside the Geffen Playhouse shivering 30% from the cold and 390% from the feeling that I have just done something terribly, horribly, unforgivably wrong. You see, my acting teacher <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/James-Eckhouse/34931234807">James Eckhouse</a> plays one of the characters in their current show, <a href="http://www.geffenplayhouse.com/more_info.php?show_id=18">The Escort</a>. Because I wanted to see him perform and because Geffen tickets are not cheap, I have arranged to volunteer as an usher, meaning I get to see the show for free. It's a lovely evening. Easy job, great show, many cool conversations with random theatergoers who happen to be sitting in the section where I am ticket taking. In the natural course of things, I hand a few of them my Buffy flyers. Not all of them, mind you; only about the four or five with whom I am actually carrying on a meaningful conversation. The show ends. I'm on that just-saw-good-theater high, compounded with the meeting-cool-people high, compounded with the about-to-congratulate-actors-I-know high when the Geffen concierge taps me on the shoulder. </div><div><br /></div><div>"We saw you blatantly pushing your product, and that's not allowed when you're working for us, representing our theater." My face goes white. Breathing gets shallow. Heart stops. Blood drains. "I am so sorry. I had absolutely no idea. It was never my intention --" This is the beginning of me rattling off every possible version of apology, subordinance, and outright begging for mercy I can possibly think of. It's all I know how to do in the moment. And just as sure as I feel obligated to ooze apologies out of every pore, he is obligated to ask me to leave the theater. Literally step out of the building. Wow. I REALLY fucked it up this time. Unknowingly, of course, which in a way makes it worse. Stupid me for doing the thing, and even STUPIDER me for not knowing that this type of behavior is so totally against the rules that it wouldn't even <i>occur </i>to the Geffen staff to <i>mention</i> it as a no-no. I want to crawl in a hole and die. Or escape into an ice cream sundae. Or at least get the hell out of the vicinity of this godforsaken theater. And I would gladly do the last one, were it not for the fact that there are two people in the show with whom I need to connect.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm waiting outside the theater. Waiting and waiting and stewing in my shame. It's a while before anyone I know walks out the door. I'm beginning to think I should just go home, but somehow I've resolved to accomplish my mission to say hello to the one person who's expecting me and the one person who isn't. Finally, I am greeted by James, who gives me a warm hug and a few kind words. On his way out, I ask him if Gabe, one of the other actors, is coming out. "Yeah," he says, "he's right behind me. You should go in and say hi." I tell him that, due to my earlier faux pas, I'm not allowed back in the theater so I have to wait outside. Dirty, muddy, ickalicious shame. I may have it stuck between my fingernails until the end of eternity. This crap is VICIOUS!</div><div><br /></div><div>James leaves, and I stick it out for Gabe, from whom I am not expecting quite as warm a welcome. You know how there are people who don't know you as well as you know them? For me, <a href="http://www.gabrielsunday.com/">Gabe Sunday</a> is one of those people. We were both counselors at <a href="http://www.campwinnarainbow.org/">Camp Winnarainbow</a>, a circus and performing arts camp founded by the famous beatnik-activist-Ben & Jerry's-ice-cream-flavor <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wavy_Gravy">Wavy Gravy</a>. And although we shared two or three summers of living in a circle of tepees, eating in a close-quartered outdoor dining area, and cavorting/ performing on a small black stage decorated by a giant rainbow, I wouldn't be surprised if he had no recollection of who I was. Gabe has always been-- in my mind-- an ingenious, wacky, larger-than-life character. I, on the other hand, was (and feel like I still am) barely coming out of my shell. He is mentioned pretty frequently in the camp newsletter in the context of Disney movies he appears in, the documentary film he has made, and his self-written/co-produced/edited/starring feature film <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0492896/">My Suicide</a> winning 20 gazillion awards at every prestigious film festival imaginable. All of these accomplishments, of course, I find pretty amazing and exciting. At the same time, the fact that someone several years younger than myself can have so many bells and whistles, milestones, and IMDB credits is just a wee bit daunting. And after seeing his performance tonight, I realize in a visceral way they are all well-deserved.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the play, Gabe plays two characters -- a 13-year-old boy and a 21-year-old male escort. They are pretty much polar opposites, and he fills each role to the brim with distinct vocal inflections, quirky physicality, and behavior that is spontaneous-feeling while at the same time completely specific to that particular character. By the end of the performance -- heck, from the moment he steps on stage -- I am thoroughly impressed, and I have to tell him so even if it means standing in the cold and bearing the shame of being passed by the very people who just booted me out of their esteemed theater venue; all in exchange for a possible "do I know you from somewhere?" look and off we go.</div><div><br /></div><div>It isn't much longer until Gabe emerges. As expected, I do get the "do I know you from somewhere?" look, but after a quick reintroduction, the moments that unfold go completely beyond any expectation. We start chatting about camp; acting; filmmaking. He graciously offers to walk me to my car, which is a bit of a hike made even more scenic by the fact that I've forgotten exactly which street I parked on. During the course of our journey, we talk about practically everything under the sun. (Actually, it was probably just acting, filmmaking, and camp-- and, of course, Flow Temple -- which is everything under the sun that matters to me.) As we walk down the side street in Westwood, I feel all these disparate elements of my world collide: being a kid in Berkeley, being a camper and counselor in Mendocino, being a struggling artist in Los Angeles, and the memories and feelings all of those things entail. When we get to my car, I pop the trunk to stash my purse, and what is at the top of my messy heap of belongings but my juggling clubs, fire poi, and contact ball (a contact ball coincidentally given to me at Camp Winnarainbow by another counselor named Gabe)?! I couldn't have DREAMED this synchronicity; let alone planned it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is now almost 2 in the morning as I sit in my apartment, writing these thoughts down fiendishly before I forget. I'd like to say that my awesome conversation with Gabe, or the post-Gabe Coffee Bean stop where the barrista gave me a free cup of tea, or even these semi-eloquent blog thoughts are what's left at the end of the day. They are, after all, more positive,more life-affirming, and ultimately more pleasant to deal with. But the truth of the matter is, the shame remains. I revisited it as I wrote about the guy at the Geffen, and I'll probably revisit it again and again. There are multitudes of demons that take millions of forms and will latch onto any tiny incidence that might fuel their fire. And my immediate instinct is to splatter them far and wide, using the universe as my confession booth, or shove them under the closet door never to be seen again. It's the most difficult thing in the world to stare at the demons and sit with them -- calmly, openly, ready to listen to what they have to say. And yes, part of the impetus for this blog may have been to satisfy my urge to be overcompensatorily contrite. At the same time, placing the thing you fear most in front of you, feeling it under your fingernails, and squirming with it for a while is a really useful task. And for me, putting it in a piece of writing I share with the world is a major step in rewriting my own history.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whew!!! That was hard. WAY more challenging than the entry I <i>thought </i>I was going to write on the same subject, except instead of me getting kicked out of a theater in Westwood it was my Pakistani rockstar friend with Mick Jagger in the red light district of Lahore. I needed to get through my own sludge tonight. But I promise you, that's a story for another day.</div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-72087070105544283622011-03-16T18:12:00.000-07:002011-03-16T19:15:45.102-07:00"Nobody can do everything, but everyone can do something."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kz3Nifp8aoQ/TYFo9xUAzzI/AAAAAAAAAJg/YucuzCoHFfw/s1600/jewelry%2Bholder%2B001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kz3Nifp8aoQ/TYFo9xUAzzI/AAAAAAAAAJg/YucuzCoHFfw/s320/jewelry%2Bholder%2B001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584860423334711090" /></a><br />I saw this quote painted on a wall at the school where I was substitute teaching this morning. Don't you love it when random phrases completely synchronize with something you are so strongly thinking about and feeling?<div><br /></div><div>This morning I was scheduled for a half day of substitute teaching art at a middle school downtown. As usual, the alarm went off at 5:30 AM and I made the commute down the 101. It was actually an extremely pretty drive. The sun rose as I passed through the neon lights of Universal Studios, the still-lit skyscrapers of downtown Hollywood, the everyday folk bustling about the Koreatown coffee shops, and into the heart of downtown LA. After arriving at the school, I checked in at the office, was led to the classroom where I would be teaching, and waited for the homeroom teacher to take roll. In a matter of minutes, for better or worse, the class would be mine. But something was a little off...</div><div><br /></div><div>The office lady who had led me to the classroom mysteriously couldn't find lesson plans. This worried me a little, since, by the nature of substitute teaching, there is always some degree of lack of control. After all, you don't know the kids and they don't trust you, and even if the lesson plan is crystal clear, you receive it 10 minutes before gametime at most. The last time I came into this school to sub, the kids definitely gave me a run for my money. Today was only a four-hour day, but anything could happen during those four hours. A minute before class, said office lady returned to tell me of another twist in the plot -- the art teacher was actually there! Guess I wouldn't be subbing art after all. (Apparently they had mixed up the months and she was supposed to be gone in April, not March.) So they sent me over to the special ed class. Big unknown, but sometimes the prizes from the grab bag are the best...</div><div><br /></div><div>It actually ended up being an amazingly wonderful workday. There were two teachers in the special ed room and only three students in the class at most at any one time, all of whom were either working on their own or closely with the teachers. "If there's anything you need from me, let me know," I said. They told me they could use some help rearranging the laptops, which needed to be charged inside a drawer. "INSIDE the drawer???" I wanted to make absolute sure I had heard correctly. Indeed, there were three surge protectors in the drawer, one of which had been plugged into an outlet in the wall. The second surge protector was plugged into the first, and the third was plugged into the second. After making sure I wasn't going to blow a fuse (we were never actually sure; they just shrugged and I guessed), I started on the job.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This would drive us crazy," they told me. I wasn't surprised, given their stories of some of the things they had to deal with on a day-to-day basis. For me, the job was fun; a good challenge; I'd go so far as to say exhilarating. You see, I am rather OCD when it comes to spatial relations. Anybody who knows me well will know that I especially have a thing with containers. Whenever I pack food into the fridge, I have to find the exact right container in ratio to the amount of leftovers. It really bugs me when there is a small amount of food put into a large container for multiple reasons. First, it wastes valuable fridge space. Second, more surface area of the food is exposed, which keeps it from staying fresh. Third, it just looks and feels icky. Conversely, when food is packed into smaller containers and perfectly topped off, I get a bit of a thrill. And I feel a huge sense of accomplishment when I eyeball some food in a pot or a wok and find the absolute perfect-sized container for it. My mother is especially skeptical of this. She says, "You'll NEVER be able to pack <i>that </i>amount of food into <i>that </i>size container." I say, "Just you wait and see!" And 9 times out of 10, I win.</div><div><br /></div><div>So there I was with a stack of laptops, a pile of tangled chargers, and three surge protectors awkwardly arranged in a drawer. I put my spatial relations OCD to work. First, I untangled any chargers that were already plugged into the surge protectors. Must start with a clean slate. Then, I stacked a few laptops-- just a few -- some with the AC adapter outlets pointing one way, some pointing the opposite ways. I plugged the chargers in on both sides, then wound and Velcro-sealed the extra cord wherever I could find a bit of empty space. I wasn't completely sure if it would work, but I had a good feeling about my MO.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the end, there was indeed enough space. The operation was a success! They looked at me and said, "We are so grateful you did this." I grinned big.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a really good moment for me. A breakthrough moment, in fact. When I'm doing my own work, I drive myself stark raving mad over my various daily activities. My brain is a tangle of wires, my to-do list feels like a stack of dead laptops, and somehow I have to unwind all of these knots and bring these tasks to life. And in the process of attempting to make the connections, I feel completely powerless. But that's not the only problem. On top of everything else, I criticize myself for being so OCD -- micromanaging every detail in order to make it all fit. I think of it as a bad thing because sometimes it drives me up the wall. I want to be "laid back"; "free"; to not give everything so much analytical thought. Furthermore, I worry like crazy that all of this self-labeled OCD is going to carry over into my interactions with other people and that they will end up feeling like food that I'm trying to stuff in a particular sized container. And maybe they wanted to be stuffed into a yogurt container instead of a half-pint plastic one because they want more breathing room, even if I want them to fit perfectly. Or maybe they're environmentalists who prefer glass. Or maybe they don't want to be stuffed in a container at all. And if that's the case, oh no! Better not let anyone know how crazy I <i>really </i>am...</div><div><br /></div><div>These are the kinds of weird thought loops I get myself into when I'm working on my own. But once I took myself into a different environment, I realized that I could reframe my so-called neuroses as strengths. Furthermore, I could use these strengths to help others. Being a wildly ambitious person, I always try to "do everything", and in the process get so caught up in my hefty task lists and my unhealthy thought patterns that I end up feeling frustrated and confused at the end of the day, even (or perhaps especially) if I get it all done. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not to say that I need to "stop doing" everything I normally do, especially the spatial stuff. (The picture you see up top is my newly acquired jewelry holder, on which I just rearranged my earrings this afternoon.) Ultimately, is a helpful thing-- for others, as well as myself. Sometimes, it just takes a couple of kind people, a random mural quote, and a drawer full of dead laptops to be able to see it that way.</div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-74935765880510194452011-01-19T10:45:00.001-08:002011-01-19T11:40:05.838-08:00Hotness with a Side of Empty Space, Sprinkled with Burning Dan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TTc07noZfsI/AAAAAAAAAJI/6dyO-qsGswg/s1600/5-8-10%2B037.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TTc07noZfsI/AAAAAAAAAJI/6dyO-qsGswg/s320/5-8-10%2B037.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563974063494889154" /></a><br />I have a thing for hotness. Literally. As I write this, I'm sitting with a cup of boiling hot tea next to my space heater, which is on full blast, despite it being a pleasantly warm day. When it comes to food, beverages, and the temperature of my surrounding space, I am like a moth to the flame. When I ordered tea at a café, I will be very upset if it isn't served scalding. And we're not just talking lukewarm. It may be the perfect temperature for drinking, but I have to have it so hot that the first sip would burn my tongue. (When I kindly I the counter worker to heat it up more, I quickly follow the request with "I promise I won't sue you!") I remember being at a sci-fi Friday where Jonathan was making grilled cheese sandwiches. Burning Dan was there (it was the only time I've ever seen him at a sci-fi Friday) and he had made this totally crazy grilled cheese sandwich with macaroni and cheese inside. Or maybe Thom Thumb was the one who actually made it (must give credit where credit is due). Apparently it was awesome enough for me to photograph so here it is, pictured at the top of this blog. In any case, I remember us all admiring the sandwich and Dan's saying, "We can't eat it yet. It's too hot." I thought to myself, "Is there really such a thing?"<div><br /></div><div>My thing for hotness is INVERSELY proportionate to my feelings about empty space. It's not that I don't like it. In fact, when I actually allow myself to have it, it's the best thing in the world. But those times feel few and far between, at least compared to how often I cram as much as possible into the smallest window of time and space. Anybody who knows me will know that I am both an over achiever and a bit of a slob. I try to clean, I really do, but I have so many things going on all at once that the messes get made faster than they get straightened. The inside of my head, too, feels like a massive clutter. I have about a million creative projects going all at once, not to mention the whole Hollywood hustle on top of the search for actual paying work. And if that weren't enough, I've got this whole vision board thing, which feels kind of like my curse and my masterpiece all at the same time. It keeps getting things added on, and it is perpetually in a state of "almost complete". I have so many amazing things on there, as I have amazing things in my life, but I keep frantically putting more on, trying to fill the empty places with awesomeness to match the rest of the board. But now it is full. Very full. Not too full, but getting there. The empty space looks asymmetrical, out of place, but I know if I tried to fill it, it would just feel cluttered. Exactly like the rest of my room, exactly like my head in its less fine moments. So for now, I leave it be.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the same token, I know that Dan had a thing for empty space. We never actually talked about it, but it was a tidbit I gleaned from the galaxy. Let me explain.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of Flow Temple Parties, he would lead us in a "galaxy swirl", where we all gather in a tight circle with our bodies facing the same direction and one arm in the middle. It's sort of like a "Go Team" formation, except that we are pointed to one side instead of the center and palms are perpendicular to the ground, rather than facing downward. It would be easy to squish our fingers tight against each other, since we all love each other and touching is fun. But Dan would say, "Leave a circle inside for the energy." I really like that idea. Truthfully, it it's a bit more challenging, but it makes everyone aware of the surrounding space, which increases our mindfulness. Also, it leaves room for the spirits to plop some surprise down the middle, maybe even sneak in themselves. (Now, when we do our galaxy swirls without Dan's physical self, he probably takes the liberty of wriggling his way into that very space.)</div><div><br /></div><div>That said, I am making a sincere effort to leave some space in my life "for the energy." The empty spot toward the bottom left side of my vision board -- it's gonna stay empty. Maybe it will stay empty forever, or maybe something will show up and say to me, "Put ME there -- I'm <i>juuuuust </i>right!" As for the space heater, I've turned it off. And the tea, which is three quarters consumed, is now lukewarm. Not to say that I don't mind a good dose of hotness, but sometimes it's good to let things cool.</div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-89248387510261680752011-01-07T09:46:00.000-08:002011-01-07T11:04:51.466-08:00Ease off the Manifest!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TSdjv-lGUxI/AAAAAAAAAIw/tq056niv6X4/s1600/IMG_4229%2B-%2BCopy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TSdjv-lGUxI/AAAAAAAAAIw/tq056niv6X4/s320/IMG_4229%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559521940915770130" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><i>This is one of the images that will be featured on my 2011 vision board. Lately, it's been more Carpe and less Awesome, but I'm changing that as we speak...</i><div><br /></div><div>I haven't blogged in forever. I have a huge backlog of ideas, but none have felt inspired. Several Buffy songs are in the works; none of them complete. I have been working like a dog on remodeling my room. Some of it is cleaner and nicer; the rest messier than before. I have poured hours, dollars, and endless energy into my vision board, which is just now starting to look beautiful, but the intent with which I've pushed to get it done feels like it defeats the whole purpose of the thing. I'm out of money and need to look for a job, but I need to take care of the mess in my room before I can feel ready to crack open that can of worms. When my friend Jonathan asked me on New Year's Eve what knowledge or intentions I wanted to take into the new year, I honestly didn't know. And I still don't. I've come up with a lot of fables/phrases/lessons learned, but none of them really feel right. Everything feels disconnected. Sure, I've had wonderful moments of revelation, relaxation, and connection with friends, but I spend most hours of the day myopic, bleary-eyed, and tunnel-visioned all at the same time. Like the song says, something's gotta give.</div><div><br /></div><div>Obviously, I don't feel this way right now. I wouldn't be blogging if I did. So what changed? For one thing, a lot of the projects I've been slaving away at are finally coming together. My new Buffy flyer, complete with swank logo, is almost finished. The last of my vision board photos -- including several spectacular ones by <a href="http://studiomahoney.com/">Carl Mahoney</a> -- are ready to print. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept, a vision board is a giant poster-like thing with pictures, quotes, and phrases that inspire you, along with images of you next to the people you want to work with. The idea is that if you imagine it, build it, and see it every day, it will come true. And it does.) Last night, after hours of fiddling around on Photoshop, I successfully crafted my own Hollywood star. And just before hitting the sack, I felt compelled to sit at my keyboard and chip away at the Anya song.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yes, I accomplished a lot and that felt good. But I've been accomplishing stuff all along. We accomplish metric boatloads of stuff on a small-to-grand scale every day, and sometimes even the biggest stuff doesn't gratify us upon completion. Furthermore, the more contingent our happiness is on causes and conditions, the crappier we will feel on the whole, even if those causes and conditions are met. The accomplishment-high hit me at the end of the day and was the symptom, not the cause. Here's the story behind the REAL feel-good moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was having a session with my amazing therapist, who I hadn't seen in a while and who always helps me make sense of things that seem like a jumble on my own. Usually, it's all figurative. This time, it was literal too. I described how I was feeling overwhelmed by everything I was trying to do; how it felt like a bunch of voices were screaming all at once and I couldn't keep my head on straight with all the noise, much less hear what any of them were trying to say. She handed me a pile of rocks and shells and said, "Let's do an exercise." We sat on the floor like little kids. "Pretend these rocks and shells are your obligations. Now, they're all in a huge clump. You need to figure out which one to choose first. Right?" I nodded. "So how do you do it?" </div><div><br /></div><div>My hands instantly spread them out. My brain caught up a few seconds later. "Oh!" I exclaimed. It all made sense! Spread them out. Spread them out spread them out spread them out. These creatures I had created that felt like they were encroaching on me -- all they needed was room to breathe. (I guess you could say the same for me.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So I took a little trip down to Hollywood. Window shopped. Randomly ran into my friend <a href="http://mymoviegirl.com/">Adam Bronstein</a>. Photographed some of the stars to collage into my own (in case you are curious, the little "camera" icon is Fred Astaire's). Drove back up to my neighborhood. Took a swim. Ate some food. Got back to work. And by the end of the day, I felt back on track. </div><div><br /></div><div>So now I feel a little more ready to face the world, but I also know that I need to give it a rest, especially with the manifesting. Now that I've practiced my donuts, it's time to let the engine cool. Speaking of which, it's a beautiful day and I'm going to go out and enjoy it for a bit. Carpe carpe carpe. AWESOME!!!</div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-4322781179587160672010-12-18T15:34:00.000-08:002010-12-18T16:03:13.828-08:00It's like a secret I can't tell you...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TQ1K-ojiz7I/AAAAAAAAAIA/ugj-fitOq8E/s1600/5-8-10%2B033%2B-%2BCopy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TQ1K-ojiz7I/AAAAAAAAAIA/ugj-fitOq8E/s320/5-8-10%2B033%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552176355516534706" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><i>This is a picture I took of Dan at a real-life party. It's the closest facsimile of what I experienced this morning. You'll understand all in a moment...</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">A friend of mine was describing this feeling she felt that I, too, had felt but couldn't quite put into words. Have you ever had something important you wanted to share with someone but the connection couldn't be made? "It's like I have a secret I can't tell you," she said. "And it's not that I can't tell you because you aren't allowed to know; I can't tell you because you wouldn't understand." I've had two experiences of this nature that I can vividly recount. One of them happened eight years ago, and one of them happened just this morning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">First, the one that happened eight years ago. I like to call this "Strangers on a Subway." I was riding the subway in New York to visit a friend of mine in the winter of 2003. This is a person I had known for a very long time, whose actions and words had impacted me greatly over the years. In his mind, he probably hadn't known me quite so well for quite so long. The anticipation of this interaction was very intense for me. It felt like a pilgrimage to get to this almost-arrival -- going back to the Port Authority station a few subway stops ago; the 5-hour bus ride from Massachusetts; the previous California summer where a few casual words he said helped me make a huge life decision; the summer 10 years before that where I had seen him and remembered him, though we never actually met.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I got off the train somewhere on the lower East side. It's been eight years since I visited New York, but the hustle and bustle of that moment still feels very alive. A sea of scurrying people; footsteps echoing; eyes darting; heart pounding; and in the middle of it all, a woman with the guitar, singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLBKOcUbHR0&feature=related">"Leaving on a Jet Plane."</a> Maybe it was the melody itself, bursting with melancholy and soul. Maybe it was the fact that I'd heard someone strumming the song that previous summer at a particularly poignant moment. Or maybe this woman and this song served merely as the sponge for my supersaturated well of emotion. Whatever the case, her song touched me. I wanted to go up to her; hold her callused fingers; tell her how much her song meant to me. I approached her and said, "That was nice." A chink in the floodgates. "Oh, thanks," she replied, followed by something appallingly casual like, "I like that song too" or "It's good to sing in the subway". Looking at her up close, I could see that her eyes were bleary. She was probably drunk or on drugs or in some other kind of weird, happy haze. I could spill her the secrets of my soul, but she wouldn't really get it. At least, not in the way I meant it. A few moments later, I found my friend, filled with the secret of the secret I could not tell.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I went to bed at 5 this morning after an amazing night of music, dancing, and fire spinning with friends who feel like family. <a href="http://www.flowtemple.org/">Flow Temple</a>, who organizes this mind-blowing monthly jam, is the brainchild of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xK9N197Nbi4&feature=related">Burning Dan</a>, who left the planet not three months ago. Of course, his essence is infused throughout the event. The entire flow family thinks of him when we spin, and we feel him especially strongly when we gather at this event. I had a particularly intense rush of emotion at the very end of the night when the MC, <a href="http://www.avatarism.org/">Alex Polinsky</a>, said, "We honor those who are here, and those who aren't here because they couldn't be..."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Despite not getting home until about 4 AM, it took me a little while to unwind before going to sleep. The fire, the intense creative energy, the amazing conversations, and an idea I had schemed up for a new short film left me buzzing; inspired; unable to enter slumberland. I burned some candles, contemplated, wrote. Normally, I don't burn candles. I think the last time I burned candles was when Dan came over last April. But I was craving the fire or the sense memory or both, and somehow as the wax melted, Dan trickled his way into my dreams.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">We were at a party at someone's house; not a location I'd recognize in real life, but it felt familiar in the dream. It was early in the morning. We'd been up all night. He talked to us; smiled; was his usual happy, sparkly Dan self. I think it was after a Flow Temple Party. I'd never gone to a Flow Temple after party with him, but there we were in the dream. Seeing him was bittersweet. It was wonderful to see him, but I knew he was going to die. He kept making these plans for things we were going to do the next time we hung out. He was making these plans with everybody. At one point, he looked at me with a point and a wink and said, "Next Flow Temple party?" "Yeah," I said, knowing that I would be there and he wouldn't. There was no way I could tell him because I couldn't change his future. It was all I could do to keep myself from looking into the crystal ball, predicting his fate, telling him all the things you would say to person if you knew they were going to die. But he was like a kid on Christmas, and I knew it would break his heart if I told him Santa didn't exist. "It's like I have a secret I can't tell you. And it's not that I can't tell you because you aren't allowed to know; I can't tell you because you wouldn't understand..."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">There is no Freudian analysis to be had on this dream, nor is it entirely unresolved. It is filled with empty space; ambiguity; possibility...</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-88058684201332413612010-12-09T11:37:00.000-08:002010-12-09T11:48:00.359-08:00Trial by Fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TQEyZ9qTGOI/AAAAAAAAAHg/ImW93y5o7Gc/s1600/IMG_0991.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TQEyZ9qTGOI/AAAAAAAAAHg/ImW93y5o7Gc/s320/IMG_0991.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548771637527255266" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><i>You all probably know I've been spinning fire for a few weeks now. I started writing this two days after the fact and just finished the first part...</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Ever had an experience where you feel like you're floating somewhere just outside your physical self? I'm not talking a telephone pole falls and knocks you to Neptune. You're still in the general area; it's just that whatever’s happening is so intense, it's too much for your body to contain so there's a bit of a split. Your spirit becomes an entity in itself, and your body has a mind of its own. They aren't completely disconnected, but the leash loosens -- like the Starship Enterprise pulling a foreign vessel via tractor beam (I don't know which is which in that metaphor). Two days later, it's still a giant blur, but I will do my best to give an accurate account.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">The nervous energy has been coursing through my body since 4 in the afternoon as I spin my poi in pale green nurse’s scrubs outside the Seattle hospital which is actually a TV studio in LA. It takes five hours before they call us 20-something fake doctors, nurses, patients, and orderlies to set. I remember a year and a half ago working Grey's Anatomy for the very first time-- bright lights, fancy film equipment, hustle and bustle of "real Hollywood film crew", and HOLY CRAP McDreamy just walked through the door! It's not that I'm jaded, bitter, or unappreciative of this wacky, wonderful world, but tonight I'm on a mission. MUST BURN... MUST BURN...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">The PA releases me at 10:18 on the dot, which gives me an hour and 42 minutes to motor my tuchus down to an abandoned park in Culver City where I will meet up with some shady characters and lose my virginity, so to speak...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I scoot up to Burbank to pick up my friend Eric at Bob's Big Boy, and we make the drive down. We walk down the hill and slosh through a lawn that feels like a swamp down to the basketball court where our people are gathered. A small group of people spin hoops, staff, poi, and other exotic objects I don't know by name. Normally, fire fills me with a feeling of serene awe, but tonight I am giddy. My time has come-- not because anyone demands it, not because a decree has spoken it so, but because something inside has told me I must. I ask Muse if I can give his fire poi a dry run and he kindly agrees. I feel as if I am picking up poi for the very first time, taking guidance from Sean as I fumble the leather loops. "How do I hold these?" I ask. It's not that I haven't done this before; more like I'm starting to freak the fuck out. He helps me thread my fingers through. First obstacle down. Once I have them in my hands, my muscle memory returns. Yes, I can do this. I can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">do</i> this. I can DO this!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">The clock strikes a few minutes before midnight. Someone yells the lighter fluid equivalent of "last call." "Wait!" I holler. "Is there time for me to spin?" I squeak in at the very last minute. Sean takes me to the fuel station, and I take a double dip. He walks me over to the "spin-off" area and instructs me to spin hard and fast with an emphasis on the down-motion so the lighter fluid won't splatter during my spin. He gives me a few words of advice and reassurance before I make my way to center court. "Stick to what you know, but don't worry too much; it takes a lot to light yourself on fire, and you've got two safeties even though you really only need one. Emma and I both have your back." On the way back to the basketball court, I take a deep inhale. My nostrils are invaded by a pungent toxicity. In any other situation, I would cringe and turn away, but right now it is sacred. <i>So this is what spinning smells like…</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">That's all anyone can say or do. Now, it's really time. Sean and Emma have their safety blankets. Muse has his camera. I pause for a moment, lifting the poi in the air as a gesture of honor. I don't know if it’s a lighter or candle or what, but something ignites me. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s a strange sensation, and we’re not talking flowery, land-of-the-poet, metaphorical feeling. These things are BRIGHT.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>These things are HOT.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And they are dangling in front of my face!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Well don’t just stand there, spin!”</i> And really, what else can I do?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Here’s where it gets fuzzy. Some things heighten. The rest falls away. Emma’s voice giving me guidance is vaguely comprehensible past the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">whoosh</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">whoosh whoosh</i> of flames streaking beside me, above me, around me every which way. Two blazing balls overpower my vision.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everything else goes black.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The dance is wild; uncontrollable; takes me everywhere; makes my heart pound and my voice shriek. At least once, a flame catches my shirt. I keep yelling, “Am I on fire?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Am I on fire?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You’re fine,” they tell me, galaxies away. There is the cold air and the warm flames and my body, shaking from them both.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am in the tornado.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am over the rainbow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am a million miles from where I’ve been.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am home.</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-73196786071075220972010-12-06T01:11:00.000-08:002010-12-06T10:14:59.609-08:00Who'd 'a thunk???<span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><object width="427" height="256"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3zZurbdyjDA?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3zZurbdyjDA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="427" height="256"></embed></object></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>Albert Einstein once said, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; ">“If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.” Sounds nice on paper, right? I mean, in theory, it's true. What's the use of rehashing the same old same old? Sure people do it, but it isn't what goes down in history. It's only the really insane stuff -- the Earth revolves around the sun, E=MC squared, "Nah nah nah nah, hey Jude" -- that stands the test of time. Once the universe gives its seal of approval -- a place in the science textbooks, the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame, whatever -- it seems obvious that the thing was a work of genius. But until then, it was nothing but a silly idea; probably a silly idea that somebody grappled endlessly over following through with, because who in the world would ever be into THAT???</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; ">Thus was the case with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl7QwQpma_s">Ballads to the Buffy Big Bads</a>. It was the crazy little brainchild that wreaked havoc in my head, and no matter how odd and out of place it seemed; no matter how many bewildered responses it elicited; no matter how badly I wanted to get rid of it, I couldn't. It was untamable. It had a mind of its own. Eventually, I realized that the only way to make peace with it was to bend to its will. Seriously, it was like chasing a misbehaved five-year-old. The harder I tried to punish it, the faster it ran. When I let go of the idea of punishment, it slowed to a reasonable pace. And when I finally sat down with it face to face, it was so darn lovable, I couldn't bring myself to put it in a corner for a timeout.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; ">Every step of the way, I have doubted this project. With each new song, I am consumed by self-judgment.<i> This is so insanely ridiculous!</i> I think to myself. Yes, it is. Of course it is. That's the reason you are doing the project in the first place. It's the reason people like it. And it's the reason you must continue doing it -- because NO ONE ELSE IN THE UNIVERSE CAN! This past song was no exception. I struggled with the music and lyrics a lot. No matter how happy I am with the outcome, part of me can't help but cringe, laugh nervously, or feel randomly awkward when I think about these songs. But I keep going with them, and I'm always glad I do. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; ">This weekend, I feel particularly victorious. We shot "If I Were a Robot" on Friday evening. I posted it Saturday morning. By Saturday evening, it had about 24 hits. Sunday morning, it had 200 more, PLUS a plug and a tweet by <a href="http://whedonesque.com/comments/25437">Whedonesque.com</a>. By the time Sunday evening rolled around, there were over 500 hits. Right now, Monday morning, there are 726. I have no idea who all of the viewers are. They could be anybody, from Joe Computer Geek to Joss Whedon himself. And I know if you're a celebrity or some kind of public figure, you're probably used to people talking about you in the third person, but for me at this moment, it's totally trippy to go on a widely known website and see:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">Karuna Tanahashi who gave us such great songs as "Ooh, Mr Mayor" and "You Renegade Vamp" now presents Ballads to the Buffy Big Bads #4 "If I Were A Robot" about the nastiest of nerdboys.</span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">I made this stuff up in my bedroom, and there it is, being talked about by all those people! I guess Einstein really <i>was </i>onto something. He probably fiddled around in his bedroom with a million ideas, including that awesome absurdity quote. We all do, hopefully. Concepts of great genius float around like dust particles, and we just need to keep our eyes open and our fingers ready to see them and catch them as they pass us by. Also, we need to be confident enough in ourselves to know that it is worth our time to seize them and doubly worth our time to give them away. I was in an amazing workshop today with the illustrious <a href="http://www.bdapproach.com/">Barbara Deutsch</a>, who said, "It's criminal not to let the world have your gifts." As artists, we always wonder whether we are being overly indulgent by putting our work on display. But if it's done from a place of truth, it's actually the opposite; sharing your creativity is an act of selflessness.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">So now that I've shared mine, I invite you to share yours. Tell me about a time when you followed through with something seemingly absurd. How was that experience for you? Were you glad you did it? What did you learn? Or if you'd rather just show me (and the rest of the world), that totally works too.</span></span></div>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-67682880143950226292010-11-27T13:48:00.000-08:002010-11-27T14:36:37.509-08:00A Bolt from the Blue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPGHczfuUJI/AAAAAAAAAHY/pPsuUknHSA8/s1600/meats%2Bautograph%2B001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPGHczfuUJI/AAAAAAAAAHY/pPsuUknHSA8/s320/meats%2Bautograph%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544361545199145106" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I'd originally planned on giving you the sequel to yesterday's story today, but something came up in the meantime, and I couldn't resist. Yesterday, as I was lollygagging around on Facebook, I noticed a new friend request. I assumed it was one of the people I had met at Thanksgiving the night before. Turned out to be <a href="http://www.ruthozeki.com/">Ruth Ozeki</a>!!!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I've never been much of a diligent recreational reader, but Ruth Ozeki’s first novel, <i><a href="http://www.ruthozeki.com/meats/description.html">My Year of Meats</a></i>, captivated the crap out of my 17-year-old self, and by the time it was assigned as summer reading between my freshman and sophomore years at Smith, I had read it at least twice. She came to speak during the first week of classes, and my heart went pitter-pat. Kickass, half-Japanese writer-filmmaker, Smith alum who spoke with such eloquently delicious spunk. I couldn't decide if I wanted to be her or just marry her. Every delightful nugget of wisdom in her lecture is tucked away in one of my old journals. And as for the signed, tattered paperback I lent to so many and loved to pieces, I recently recovered it from a friend in Dallas, Texas. "If you still have that book you borrowed from me five years ago, could you please send it back? It's got sentimental value..."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If I had looked her up on Facebook, that would've been one thing. But the fact is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">she</i> found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">me</i>. Whether she had met my dad at a Zen retreat center, or found me through our "mutual friends" (of which there are 7 according to the Book of Face), or my name popped up randomly on her feeds from my "favorite books" list, I don't know and I don't care. Someday, I'll learn of the hand that threw the candy from the rooftop. For now, I'm just going to bask in the idea that it's raining lemon drops.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's the greatest feeling in the world when something like that hits you completely out of the blue. We all wish it would happen more often. Sometimes, we might wonder what we can do to "make" those moments happen. The answer is sadly, we can't. All we can do is notice them when they arise. And when we acknowledge them deeply in whatever way we do -- be it putting it down on paper, meditating for a minute, or having a good laugh -- they stay with us longer and permeate our entire being. It also makes us more attentive to future amazing moments. This is what The Page of Possibility is about for me; making physical and mental notes about those eye-catching, sparkly things in my life so I can share them with the rest of the world and, on the gloomy days when my pockets aren't jingling and my voice can't seem to find a happy tune, not feel quite so bereft. It isn't every day that we meet the love of our life, get inspired to create our next masterpiece, or get Facebook friend requested from one of our childhood heroes. But more often than not, we find that other earring we've been missing for weeks, or our favorite food at the grocery store is 50% off, or someone says that perfect little thing that makes us smile through our stress.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'm trying to take note of these things, which is hard to do at times, especially when I'm in a huge hurry. Being the slightly disorganized person I am, I tend to lose my keys on a pretty frequent basis. Sometimes I will be trying to leave the house, already late, frazzled out of my mind, and the last thing I need is my keys. I used to search and search and, upon finding them, say "Ugh, finally!" and run out the door in a tizzy. Now, I really make an effort to stop, no matter how much of a hurry I’m in, throw my hands in the air, and go, "Yes!"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, you tell me about something that has completely delighted you -- be it meeting your idol or buttering your bread.</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-34397994802424922672010-11-26T16:02:00.000-08:002010-11-26T16:14:57.559-08:00Sacred Longing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPBLSUprxFI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/3NewN6SRs7M/s1600/Saturday%2B11-13%2B001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPBLSUprxFI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/3NewN6SRs7M/s320/Saturday%2B11-13%2B001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544013919446352978" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><i>In lieu of taking a picture of the celebrity mentioned below, I took a picture of myself as I torturously contemplated taking a picture of him.</i> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">EXT. BACKYARD-- NIGHT</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">A group of us are gathered around the fire as a friend talks about somebody she loved. "We were friends long before anything romantic or sexual ever happened," she says. "We were super close in this way that was like sixth grade buddies where we would share secrets and go on adventures, and that was totally cool. I took it as a given that he was completely unavailable. And eventually I realized I loved him as something more. I knew I wasn't going to get him, or so I thought. It's agonizing to want something so bad, but want it as deeply as you can because that's what's going to bring it about. And there's the sacredness to the longing."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="right" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:right">CUT TO:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">EXT. CAFÉ—DAY</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">So I'm sitting at Aroma with my friends Robert and Jay. Robert and I have ordered the jerk chicken wrap and Jay is working on a lox plate. We are catching up, cracking a few distasteful jokes, and laughing at them like high school teenagers. Then, the teacher comes in and ruins all the fun. But not in the way you might think...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">We're sitting outside, and Robert and Jay have the seats facing the street. "Do you watch <i>Glee</i>?" says Robert in a hushed tone. "If by 'watch' you mean ‘up till 3 in the morning yesterday in a marathon of back-to-back reruns on Netflix’ I guess the answer would be yes." "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Will_Schuester">Will Schuster</a> is standing right in front of us waiting to order." I crane my neck all slow and sneaky-like. Yes, it is he -- TV star; triple threat; show choir director hunk in residence... of my heart. I'm officially in Fan Girl shock. I can't hold a conversation; can't eat a bite; every circuit in my body goes haywire.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I know myself well enough by now to understand that this is something I do. I am new to LA. I get starstruck. I admire the value in others' work while acknowledging the value of my own. I have deep respect for many people's accomplishments, both in the entertainment industry and out. And I don't go gaga over every celebrity I see. If it had been any other character on the show, I probably would've been like, "Huh, cool," and returned to my meal. That actually did happen with <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0528331/">Jane Lynch</a> when I was eating breakfast with another friend in Studio City. He said, "Is that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sue_Sylvester">Sue Sylvester</a> taking the table outside?" I said, "Oh yeah, I think it is," and that was the end of that. Not to say that the actress and the character aren't equally awesome, but there's one other factor involved -- sex appeal. For any of you who have not seen <i>Glee</i> (which means you're probably a hermit camping out in the Mongolian desert completely deprived of pop culture of any kind), <a href="http://www.matthewmorrison.com/">Matthew Morrison</a> -- the actor who plays "Mr. Shue”-- is just about the biggest heartthrob imaginable. And that's BEFORE he opens his mouth to sing or busts a move on the dance floor, which exponentially increase his attractiveness by 500 and 25,000, respectively. Also, the fact that I had been watching him feverishly not 10 hours before made it all the more intense.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">"I want to talk to him. I want to ask him for a picture. I want to tell him I love him to pieces," I rattle as Jay and Robert smile and shake their heads. "Don't do it," they warn, "It could be a very baaaad idea." "But it worked for Drusilla," I plead. (I had previously approached Juliet Landau, who plays Drusilla on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i>, told her she was awesome, and asked her for a picture. She kindly obliged, I subsequently wrote her <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-cDTlX0yNM">vampire alter ego a love song</a>, and now we are on friendly terms.) "That was a completely different context,” they tell me. "She was at an industry event that lent itself to hobnobbing. He's eating lunch. He doesn't want to be bothered." I refuse to take no for an answer just yet. I think, “I need to prove my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">audacity </i>(if only to myself). I need to live without regret. I need to go after the things I want... with a vengeance."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And then I remember my dear friend's words around the fire. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Sacred longing, sacred longing, how about that sacred FREAKING longing??? </i>When I think of the word “sacred,” a specific set of images comes to mind. Candles. Churches. People overtaken by magical trance states dancing and praying to the rain gods. This feeling I have is icky; unpleasant; borderline unbearable. Robert quietly snickers as he watches my face contort like an electric shock victim. "You’re adorable," he says. I say, "You think this is adorable for ME?" And then I take a step outside of myself to see what is really going on. My hands shake. My body twitches. Heart pounds like a jackhammer. This is a heightened state; an altered state; yes, a sacred state of being.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Part of me thinks, "If only this longing could be fulfilled..." as if this moment were somehow empty. In fact, this moment is FULL. It is, perhaps, fuller than any moment when our desires have been met or goals achieved. A desire can feel like a pothole; a big chunk of negative space just waiting for a trowel-full of cement to eliminate the clunk in the road. But once the pavement is poured, it just feels neutral. Nobody notices their tires gliding across it; at least not in the way they would have noticed the sink, bounce, and rattle as they passed through its previous state. Furthermore, save maybe a black hole or two in another part of the universe, there is no such thing as "empty." Even if the moment isn't filled with our substance of choice, it is buzzing with all sorts of other things -- physical sensations; tsunamis of emotions; epiphanies of all shapes and sizes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">As a multi-tasking overachiever, I want everything to serve a higher purpose, or at least many lower and medium-height purposes. I want to connect with Matthew Morrison; get over my fan girl neuroses; get a picture for my blog; prove I've got chutzpah; slip him a flyer for my Buffy project, thereby owning my identity as an actress, singer, writer, creative person, human being worthy of eating food and breathing air. And then I realize his purpose has already been served. Twice, in fact. He has given me something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">awesome</i> to reflect on AND he has given me a story for my blog. It isn't the purpose I had wanted or expected, but I honor it; respect it; embrace it fully for what it is.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">A folded-up Buffy flyer remains tucked away in the back pocket of my cutoff jeans; a reminder that I don't have to give it away all here, all now. My future self is kicking it with Matthew Morrison a few months or years later, laughing about the whole darn thing. And my future self a few hours from now is handing another Buffy flyer to a random stranger who turns out to be a record producer for Alice in Chains, Billy Idol, and The Offspring. But that's a story for another day…</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-65671906666394282202010-11-26T15:37:00.000-08:002010-11-28T12:06:00.521-08:00My cigar needs a light. Anyone got a blowtorch?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPBGAJgzTuI/AAAAAAAAAHI/hsUhViTCif4/s1600/Saturday%2B11-13%2B005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TPBGAJgzTuI/AAAAAAAAAHI/hsUhViTCif4/s320/Saturday%2B11-13%2B005.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544008109660524258" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Immediately after the whole Matthew Morrison shenanigans, Robert, Jay, and I head over to Priscilla's in Burbank to chat about our lives and creative endeavors. Toward the end of our conversation, we see a guy sitting behind us doing the most peculiar thing: lighting a cigar with a blowtorch. And we're not talking dainty, crème brûlée-decorating tool here. You see the picture. You get the picture. "Oh my goodness, that's totally AWESOME!" I say to him on our way out. "Can I please get a picture of that?" "Sure," he says. So I snap the photo at the top of this page. I tell him I'd like to write about him in my blog and hand him a Buffy flyer. He, in turn, writes his info in my notebook. "What do you do?" I ask him, almost as an afterthought. "I'm a record producer," he tells me. Lots of people in this town say they do lots of things, and they could be triple-platinum, Academy award-winning, Emmies-and-Grammys-up-the-wazoo industry executives or they could be blowing smoke up your ying-yang. Granted, this guy is blowing literal smoke, but -- as I later discover when I look at his <a href="http://bryancarlstrom.com/index.html">website</a>,-- he actually is a record producer/engineer/mixer/songwriter whose credits include Alice in Chains, Queen, The Offspring, Social Distortion, and Billy Idol to name a few. My first thought is, "How crazy is it that the character lighting his cigar with a blowtorch happens to be this mega-successful music guy?" And then I think to myself, "Maybe the cigar-blowtorch thing is the reason for his success."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I know it sounds kooky, but hear me out. Lighting a cigar with a blowtorch is extravagant and illogical. Why would one carry around such an unwieldy object when all one needs is a lighter or a match? Why would one waste money and fuel on such a frivolous pursuit? And who in the world would think to do such a thing in the first place? You have to admit, though, it adds a certain effect. It gives the message: "Any old schmo would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">think</i> to use a match. But not me, no sirree. I may be doing what everybody and their mother already does, but I'm gonna do it with pizzazz like you wouldn't believe. And you can bet your britches I'm gonna flaunt it." </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think if we approached our projects with this much bravado and panache, we would all be multi-platinum. Think about it. We all have this feeling of trepidation about our creative projects; our entrepreneurial business plans; our big life goals. We want to be discreet about them because what if someone else doesn't think they are as great as we do? At least we didn't break out our big guns. Or worse, what if we go in full force with our fanciest flourish of flame and “they”-- the all-encompassing "they" -- snuff it out? Okay, that could happen, but I'm too idealistic to buy into that school of thought. How about we bring out our biggest blowtorch for even our tiniest stuff? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The day before the blowtorch encounter, I had driven down from Berkeley with the future president of Nigeria. Craigslist can attract some potentially sketchy people, but I happened to get lucky. Bisi Obateru is a Nigerian-born, like-minded, visionary creative soul who is currently an urban planning major at SF State University. Over the course of our long ride, we got to talking about many things, including his big plan to re-imagine the urban infrastructure of Nigeria. (This guy is 20 years old, and he has a plan to restructure a freaking country!) I said to him, "So do you want to be the president of Nigeria?" to which he responded, "Everybody always asks me that, and it isn't my goal, but in a way I almost <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">have</i> to be in order to do what I want to do." I've met a lot of people with visions of false grandeur, but when he said that to me, I honestly believed it was true. "Wow," I thought. "I am sharing the car with the future president of Nigeria. What an honor and delight!" We totally took a picture together at one of the rest stops doing the cheesy celebrity shaking-hands thing. This could be worth something someday, you never know. I kept thinking about that picture of young Bill Clinton shaking hands with JFK.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I will forever think of Bisi as the future president of Nigeria, just as I call <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Page-of-Possibility/125153677546549">The Page of Possibility</a> my attempt at world domination. Maybe they will come true, maybe they won't. And even if they don't, what's the worst that could happen? People find me incredibly silly for saying so? Furthermore, maybe they will come true precisely because I think and talk about them in this way. Sometimes, people need to see the blowtorch, even if it is really all just for show. And it may make them see an elaborate, multi-mouthpieced hookah even if all you've got is a Marlboro mini.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here's another hypothesis about the blowtorch theory. Say the scope of even our smallest pet projects is bigger than we could ever imagine. We need a huge, honking blowtorch to account for that possibility. In fact, this is not just a possibility; it is a definite truth. If you are an artist or an entrepreneur of any kind, the fact is it wasn't a choice. All of the people who had that choice became stockbrokers and insurance salespeople and desk clerks. As for the rest of us crazies, we are not acting entirely of our own accord. We are bitten by the bug; called by the muse; possessed by something outside of ourselves. We may think we only contain half an ounce of lighter fluid, but in order for us to endure all that we have to in order to make our art and live the lives that we live, something much greater than we can possibly fathom is fueling our fire. So let's give that flame its proper due.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, I give the floor to you. Describe one of your projects or artistic/life goals, but 10 times more spectacular than you're comfortable doing. Believe it or not, that's at LEAST equal to the credit it deserves.</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-64780058943630929202010-11-25T16:13:00.000-08:002010-11-25T16:22:04.925-08:00Step AWAY From the Humble Pie!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TO79JczxPUI/AAAAAAAAAHA/6ZeSTEPC6Xw/s1600/Saturday%2BDogen%2B072.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TO79JczxPUI/AAAAAAAAAHA/6ZeSTEPC6Xw/s320/Saturday%2BDogen%2B072.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543646530133638466" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Being as how it's Thanksgiving, I thought I’d take a moment to talk about moderation with regards to pie. But don't panic, I am NOT the dietitian/personal trainer/spouse trying to fill you with guilt about the decadent food you are probably going to eat no matter what they say. Feel free to gorge yourself with abandon on double-decker pumpkin pecan sweet potato cheesecake marmalade mousse cradled in crunchy, crusty deliciousness. But please LAY OFF THE HUMBLE PIE!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I know it's tempting. It's staring you down at the dessert table; perhaps not the yummiest or prettiest thing on the spread; it's the dish that "looks like it needs to be eaten." Maybe someone decided to rescue it from the day-old discounts, or maybe it was made from a mediocre mix, or maybe someone made a valiant effort to bake it from scratch but ended up miscalculating the ratios, burning the edges, or leaving the middle section cold and uncooked. You glance over to the far end of the table and see the dessert you really want to eat but stop yourself, thinking, "If I don't sympathize with this sad little slice, who the heck will?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Allow me to let you in on a big, little secret. I have partaken of said pie on many, many occasions. It's a habit that haunts me in moments of weakness still. But I've also had the grand tour of the factory that makes this variety of pie, and YES it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">is</i> a factory! The owners of the company are very manipulative and have a way of tailoring each pie to make it look like it was baked just for you. Truthfully, every pie that slides off the assembly line contains the same addictive, crappy quality ingredients that make you feel sick to your stomach, emotionally icky, and keep you coming back for more. People ask me, as they have all through my adolescent and adult life, "Are you an actor/writer/artist/fill-in-the-blank? What do you love? What do you want to do with your life?” The answer to the first question was most frequently, "I try..." The second question would have varying answers depending on the chapter in my life -- juggling, puppetry, and moviemaking to name a few. Whatever it happened to be, I would mumble, stammer, and swallow my words. As for the third question, you'd be lucky if you could hear my answer... if I was able to even utter it in the first place. I hear other people saying the same things -- "I'm learning..." or "I wouldn't dare to call myself that, but..." or "I can only begin to hope that someday I might be worthy to say..."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Can we cut the crap and own up to our awesome? If you are one of the 99.9% of Americans celebrating this holiday in the typical fashion, you will be stuffing your face with all sorts of decadent goodies. (If not, just go with me for a second...) Can you imagine, even for a moment, being equally indulgent with your own self worth? Let's take a second to turn the image around. Instead of being the person with the dessert plate in hand, visualize actually BEING the pie. How could you mix yourself, bake yourself, decorate yourself in a way that would make other people unable to resist piling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">their</i> dessert plates high with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">you</i>? Not because they feel obliged to; not because it's "just there"; but because the very sight, smell, and flavor of you sends them into spastic salivation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nice theory, right? Now, let's put it into practice. In what way are you irresistibly scrumptious, from baking to plating to smelling to tasting? What makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">you</i> the kind of pie every single dinner guest wants to sink their teeth into? And taking it one step further, what makes you so stupendous, you have all the people who claim your flavor isn't their a dessert of choice coming back for seconds and thirds? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Since I'm the one who came up with this crazy idea, I'll go first. You don't have to do more than one, but I'm challenging myself to three.</p><p class="MsoNormal">-First, this journal entry. I was totally planning on ditching the pie metaphor after Paragraph 1, but once I sat down to write it kept going and going. I had no idea at the start that eating the pie would transform into being the pie, but I rolled with it, and I feel delighted, excited, empowered by the way it turned out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">-Second, I recently recorded the music track for "If I Were a Robot," installment #4 of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl7QwQpma_s">Ballads to the Buffy Big Bads</a>. David Bickford, my friend and co-conspirator, worked wonders with the musical arrangement. He has made this project way cooler than anything I could have done on my own, but I'll let him sing his own accolades. Now, back to me. I'm a total nerd hottie who has mad skills writing kickbutt music and lyrics and rocks the living socks off of them when I perform. I'm especially proud of this song because it is triple-threateningly star-studded, with references to Star Wars, Star Trek: the Next Generation, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">and</i> Battlestar Galactica. (My cameraman is away for the holidays so we will record it and reveal it in its full geeky glory once he returns next week.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">-The third one is the hardest to talk about but also the most important because it is less about what I'm doing and more about who I'm being. The other night, a friend of mine told me I was "painfully passionate." It was a deep compliment because he said it with such sincerity. In a way, we all want to be told those things, but what in the world do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">do</i> when somebody suddenly sees you, really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">sees</i> you, and shows you the beautiful being you truly are? It was like he handed me a pod full of organic Madagascar vanilla beans. I know what to do with the artificial stuff, or the stuff sold in bottles that's watered down with alcohol, but in its pure, untainted form it’s almost too much to handle. But I know better than to conveniently throw it away. I will own it, absorb it, and incorporate it into my spectacular baked confection, and I -- along with the rest of the world -- will be all the richer because of it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I really, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">really</i>, REALLY want you to think about this and answer honestly to yourself. Take a few deep breaths. A moment of silence. See what comes to you, and spill it. Don't be shy; I wasn't. After all, it's not about you anyway; it's about giving it to all of us. Think of this as a virtual potluck. Even if you are reticent about your baking skills, we are all counting on you not to deny us our dessert!</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-13998066850054268262010-11-24T20:16:00.000-08:002010-11-24T20:31:51.365-08:00What Is the Opposite of Grief???<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TO3lLlDj7uI/AAAAAAAAAG4/vMIVlQK1lFc/s1600/Saturday%2BDogen%2B064.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TO3lLlDj7uI/AAAAAAAAAG4/vMIVlQK1lFc/s320/Saturday%2BDogen%2B064.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543338703451320034" /></a><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Since Dan's death, I've been doing a lot of musing and brooding on the topic of grief. I was out at <a href="http://www.sfzc.org/ggf/">Green Gulch Farm</a> the other week, a lovely Zen Buddhist retreat center tucked away along the shoreline of Northern California. It was cold, wet. The trees were heavy with rain. Standing under a massive pine tree, I thought to myself, "Grief in this life is as inevitable as getting dripped on when standing under a rain-soaked tree." The weather, the scenery, the mood of the moment all felt very contemplative; very Zen.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "> </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Okay, so we've covered that topic. Now, let's look at the flip side. I with spending the weekend with my family in Berkeley to celebrate the release of my dad’s immensely huge translation of the life's work of Zen master <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C5%8Dgen">Dogen Zenji</a>, which has taken my father exactly 50 years to complete. Along with the fancy dinners, Buddhist lectures, and meet-and-greets with all of the heavy hitters in the American Zen Buddhist community, I have attended what feels like panel after panel of scholarly discussion on various subjects relating to Dogen, poetry translation, and the practice of Zen. I had an exciting insight during one such lecture.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "> </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">As one of the women gave her presentation, she referenced a Dogen quote from a movie called "Zen" that had been screened the night before. Just to give you a little background, this was a Japanese biopic on the life of Dogen, and by Japanese I don't just mean it was set in East Asia with Asian-looking characters and English subtitles. This film was JAPANESE to the bone-- cheesy, sentimental, blandly written and un-creatively executed. Also, it was chalk full of utterly campy, cheap-looking visual effects. In the scene where Dogen gets enlightened, he closes his eyes and a giant floating lotus appears, and somehow he ends up sitting on top of the lotus and the lotus shoots straight into the sky with him right along with it. There's another scene where a war has just broken out and we see a pile of severed heads on the ground with bad CG butterflies flying all around them. Suddenly one of the heads opens its eyes, screams, and shoots into the lens of the camera. My friend Brad and I had a good laugh when the movie was through. We brainstormed a bunch of ideas about an interactive Rocky horror-type showing where we all throw paper butterflies at the screen.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "> </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The quote this woman referred to in her lecture was completely un-funny. It had more to do with Dogen's philosophy than any of the movie’s corndog camp. But to me, the corndog camp was so overpowering, I burst out laughing at the movie’s mere mention. It was totally inappropriate, especially given that we were sitting in a very formal-looking meditation hall. I hid behind my hair so I could avoid being too conspicuous. But I didn't hold back because I was experiencing something truly awesome: THE OPPOSITE OF GRIEF.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "> </p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I've experienced the other sensation a lot lately in the process of grieving Dan. "Dammit," I would think, "Every time I see <em style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">this</em> thing or think <em style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">that</em> thought that reminds me of him, I'm going to get really sad and PROBABLY cry, PROBABLY in an embarrassing public situation. Or if not, I'll it least go into that heavy, contemplative, reflect-on-life mode." But let's flip that coin onto the backside of our opposite hand and notice, just NOTICE, the things that make us reflexively, unquestionably, unconditionally happy. What is that thing for you? Also, let's think of a word to describe the experience so we can call it by its proper name.</p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><i>Side Note: The above picture is my dad and my brother at one of the weekend's panels being simultaneously goofy in that subtle, Japanese sort of way. I don't yet have a verbal answer for the question I posed in this entry. This picture is the closest I could come.</i></p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-82266262770489403102010-11-23T15:37:00.000-08:002010-11-23T15:42:36.048-08:00Who the heck WAS that? Parking Lot Poi Joy<p><span style="font-style: italic;">Ever get the feeling you are being overtaken by a person or force outside of yourself?</span><br /></p><p>The other day, I was working downtown on the set of a strange Japanese film. It was an early-morning call. We were stationed outside, and luckily the day turned out to be gorgeous. The sun was shining, we had a splendid view of the city from our little parking lot base camp, and the downtime was plentiful. I found a relatively secluded spot and, as I'm accustomed to doing these days, started spinning my poi. I still consider myself a toddler in the art so I don't like to call too much attention to myself. At the same time, it wasn't like I was completely hidden. If somebody wanted to find me, they could. And eventually, they did.</p><p>After a good chunk of solitary spinning -- in which I was able to drink in the day, relish the dance, and drench myself in sunlight and gratitude -- I was approached by a girl who called herself Ray. She said, "Those are awesome. Can I see them? I know a few tricks." I handed them over to her, and she immediately engaged in some delightful twirls and flourishes. She told me that spinning was less her cup of tea, and most of the tricks she knew were from her background in flag baton twirling. "I have my flags in my car," she said, "Maybe I'll grab them." I said to her, "Well what are you waiting for?!"</p><p>She dashed off to her car and quickly returned with her toys. I'd never seen anything like them! She maneuvered them quite deftly. The tricks she performed were very similar to poi tricks. Of course, they had a different look and feel since the objects she was manipulating moved through time and space in their own distinct way. There was one particular trick I enjoyed watching her do, which involved a certain symmetrical pattern of circular motions going in front of and behind the head in the parallel-to-your-body plane. (If I were a real poi Jedi like Burning Dan, I'd have the correct terminology to describe this maneuver, but I don't so I'm making it up as I go along.) I asked her to teach me the trick, requesting her to break it down into its teeniest tiniest elements, since it usually takes me a while to "get it" with poi. She showed me, and surprisingly it wasn't that hard. In fact, she said, "You're really good. You learned that trick <em>way</em> faster than I did." This was a rather miraculous moment, and here's why.</p><p>It's always been a struggle for me to grasp the concept of poi. Until that point, I’d considered myself a poi dummy -- a "spinvalid" if you will. At that moment, it was like I had my hands on a Ouija board. The board was moving, but it sure as heck wasn't me! So if it wasn't me, who was it? And then I thought, "Dan, you sly bastard..."</p><p>My decision to break out my poi led to a few delightful events that morning. I made a new friend and learned a new trick. I found out I was ACTUALLY good at spinning after previously convincing myself I was a klutz. Ray with her baton and me with my poi attracted further attention, which resulted in a visit from one of the crew members, who told her that "The catering guys want you to do your flag routine near the crafty table to keep the flies away." Also, my conversation with Ray about the myriad of fire arts gave way to my favorite quote of the day: "Flaming staff -- that sounds like a REALLY nasty infection!"</p><p>It was a beautiful moment, and I sincerely feel Dan was with us; like he was making it happen. And even if he himself was not the direct cause, he had given me the courage to initiate it on my own. That very last spin jam at Venice Beach, the day he died, he showed me a couple of tricks that were exactly what I needed to take my poi practice to the next level. I didn't entirely grasp them at the time, but I tucked them away in my back pocket, letting them simmer and steep. The day I heard the news of his death, I went out to the Berkeley Marina and spun. Suddenly, I got it. It was like he had passed a piece of himself along to me.</p><p>I think that when somebody disappears so suddenly, their energy scatters in a weird way. I can only imagine that when somebody dies slowly of some drawn-out, terminal disease, all the little bits of themselves -- their essence, if you will -- slowly deplete as their body withers and gives way. With Dan, it was like his body went proof before his essence had the chance to figure out what to do. It's an obvious metaphor, a writer's worst cliché, but the truth of the matter is he WAS a ball of fire. When he died, his energy went everywhere, and if we were lucky enough to be in the splash zone of the Shamu show, we, too, caught on fire. Every time I spin my poi, I feel like he is with me. And every time I miss him, I need only spin my poi. I feel so lucky to have interacted with Dan, meaningfully if briefly, and to be the keeper -- and spreader -- of the flame.</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-20564543297362572572010-11-22T12:29:00.001-08:002010-11-23T15:49:29.440-08:00When Was the Moment the String Struck?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TOrTA6tN8oI/AAAAAAAAAGw/5-Fzmcg7AkM/s1600/Tara%2Bconcert%2B015.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TOrTA6tN8oI/AAAAAAAAAGw/5-Fzmcg7AkM/s320/Tara%2Bconcert%2B015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542474304145191554" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I was listening to a concert by my amazing Indian singer friend, Tara Kini, and my ear caught on to the drone of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tambura">tambura</a>, which got me thinking about chance, which got me thinking about turtles and donuts, which got me thinking about Dan and poi, and how these things all factor into my life. I'll explain the chain of association momentarily, but first a little aside...</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You'll hear me mention Dan and poi a lot in these entries. <a href="http://burningdan.net/">Burning Dan</a> is a friend of mine who recently passed away. He was a teacher and master of the art of spinning <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poi_%28juggling%29">poi</a> , and he inspired me in a lot of ways. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Page-of-Possibility/125153677546549">The Page of Possibility</a> is my way of honoring him and passing along the awesome energy he transmitted to me. Poi is also a way I channel him and keep his memory alive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Okay, onto turtles and donuts. My mother, who is a Zen Buddhist, told me a story when I was a kid about the odds of being born human. She said, "If a single innertube is floating in the sea, the chances of a turtle swimming up to the surface and sticking its head through the hole are about the same as the chances of becoming a human." In a teen meditation group, I heard the story retold with a different twist. “Imagine there's a donut floating in the sea. It's a vanilla donut with chocolate glaze and crushed peanuts decorating the top. If such a donut even exists, and a turtle pokes its head through the hole before it disintegrates in the salt water, you MIGHT be born a human."<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Now let's take that image and microcosmify it just a smidge. We’re human; we made it past the first hoop, donut, whatever. How about all of the other things and people and practices in our lives? I watched the tambura player's fingers pluck the strings, and thought about all of the empty space around those fingers and those strings. Because his fingers were so intimately connecting with the strings at that particular moment, it seemed obviously meant to be. But at some point in time, that instrument, those hands, and this particular permutation of singer, musicians, and audience were totally distant; unimaginable even. This is how I feel about Dan and poi.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The scale has gotten significantly smaller; let's say a tadpole in a tide pool with a cheerio. Maybe that tadpole will stick its head through the cheerio, but it'll probably take a few tries. It might swim right past it, not paying the cheerio any mind. It might see it and decide not to go through. It might try to poke its head, miscalculate, and knock up against the side. But hey, it's closer than it ever was before, right? And then, one day, BULLSEYE!!!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A million circumstances led me to Dan and poi. I had encountered poi at Camp Winnarainbow 10 years before, learned a trick or two, hadn't been bitten. Met Dan at a party and saw him spin fire; impressive, but not for me. Went to spin jams and parties, learned a few more tricks; fun, but totally over my head. And just at that bridge time -- the electric overlap of Dan's last moments as a person on the planet and the moments after he merged with The Force -- it caught. Returning to the tambura metaphor, I had found the instrument. I had struck the note many times with varying degrees of success. Now, the note was striking a chord in me. Dan, I wish you were around for this, but I thank you for passing along the gift that now resonates through my entire being.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There's my story. Now, tell me yours. What person, practice, or thing <span> </span>came into your life and touched you deeply, and when was the moment the string struck?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7072562079268721385.post-23577672796300149882010-11-21T13:51:00.000-08:002010-11-21T13:57:56.055-08:00Where Does It All Begin?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TOmVkOfbGnI/AAAAAAAAAGg/rR7IUBogRJw/s1600/Germans%2Band%2BPhilz%2B017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_naNJ1MujMXY/TOmVkOfbGnI/AAAAAAAAAGg/rR7IUBogRJw/s320/Germans%2Band%2BPhilz%2B017.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542125266053831282" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Sometimes it begins with a walk. I am visiting Berkeley on the most joyous occasion -- the completion of my father's epic translation of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Shobogenzo</i>-- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Treasury of the True Dharma Eye-- </i>a translation of Zen master Ehei Dogen’s life work which has taken him 50 years to complete. A morning walk is part of my daily routine, and I normally cherish the opportunity to walk around my old neighborhood. Today, I decide to explore someplace new. I jump in my car and find myself on a beautiful sidestreet in the North Shattuck neighborhood. The South-drooping autumn sun glints off the tall trees. Upon taking a turn down a different block, I see an old man coming toward me at snail's pace. He is framed by a flurry of flora. Deep green leaves create a canopy over his head. His movements are slow so I have ample time to record the moment in my mind. I want to take a picture of him, but he's far away, I don't want to be rude, and by the time ask permission the moment will be lost. So I wait till he passes and snap a photo of a rosebud instead. I reach the end of the block, turn around, and find myself on north Shattuck Avenue, smack in front of Philz Coffee -- one of the most phenomenally amazing cafés in the whole wide universe. I left everything, including my wallet, in my car when I set out on my walk, but I tucked $5 in my pocket specifically for an occasion like this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Sometimes it begins with a cup of tea. "One small herbal mint," I tell the woman behind the counter. Sounds like a boring drink, but this isn't any ordinary cup of mint tea. It's brewed on the spot with fresh mint, cardamom, anise, and enigma (the secret ingredient that makes every mouthful magical). I kid you not -- I was talking to a lady who said she got the coffee they use, along with all the corresponding ingredients, and attempted to re-create her favorite Philz drink at home. Not even close!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I plop myself down on one of the couches and take my first sip. This is the first time I've ordered this particular drink. It is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Also, there's something about their coffee cups, which are dark brown, printed with the curly queue Philz logo, and slightly ribbed in texture, which adds a whole other sensory element of the experience. Normally, I come to a café with a laptop, a load of books, and an overwhelmingly ambitious agenda. Today, I decide, no such thing. I will sit here holding my cup of tea, sipping my cup of tea, giving my undivided attention to this cup of tea.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Sometimes it begins with a question. I look into the milky brown beverage that belongs to the woman sitting across from me, who later introduces herself as Sarah. "Is that the Philz Fresh Chai?" I ask her, which is my favorite drink here. She says, "No, it's the Swiss Water Coffee. I used to order the Ecstatic Iced Coffee, but I switched to decaf and this is my new favorite." Two guys sit next to us on our corresponding couches. "What’s your beverage of choice?” I ask them. The guy next to me, Jason, says he loves the Turkish coffee. For Jonathan, Sarah's couch buddy, it's the Istanbul Treat-- a blend of black and green tea with cardamom and other spices. How cool, I think, that all our drinks are different and we love them all so much!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">"Do you want to try a taste of mine?" Sarah asks me. "Sure," I say. I lift it to my lips; sip; melt. "Want some of mine?" I offer in return. "No thanks," she says, "I don't think I'll be able to taste the tea since I've been drinking my coffee." "Come on," I urge, "It's really, REALLY good." "Okay," she says. I can tell she's doing it to humor me. She reluctantly takes my cup. "Take a deep breath, clear your mind," I say. She does. She then takes a sip. Her eyes pop. "Oh my God; it's like a whole new world!" </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">By this time, the guys are in on our interaction. We've been casually conversing until this point. All of a sudden, there's a buzz in the air. It's like Sarah's whole universe opened up in front of our eyes! One single, skeptical sip, and this matrix of possibilities suddenly appeared. I have the feeling that if, in that moment, she decided to lift a house or shoot laser beams from her eyes or juggle flaming torches on 100 foot tall unicycle, she totally could. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I drink in the moment. Something in Sarah's coffee is now percolating the possibility in me. Our couches are parallel and identical in length. They have different designs -- hers is cloth with flowery green-brown print and mine is mahogany leather -- symmetrical but not the same. The two women and two men sit across from each other in perfect balance, but Sarah, Jason, and Jonathan all have their laptops and I just have my tea. I'm like the "One of These Things Is Not like the Other" in the Sesame Street song. A fly on the ceiling would see our heads like dots on the "4" slab of a 6-sided die. And wouldn't it be nice if I had my journal to write this all down? But then again, none of this would be possible if I had been lugging my load.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I chew on a mint leaf that's been steeping in my cup as the girl with the floppy gray sweater that looks like a blanket moves from one table to the next, and I think to myself, "We need to make spaces for things like this. Physical spaces. Head spaces. Spaces on the web."</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And so arose the idea for this vessel -- this perfect combination of solid matter and empty space -- into which possibility can pour.</p>Karuna Tanahashihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01042885358073797021noreply@blogger.com1