Of course it made me to think about my first writing workshop and how much pressure I put on myself to write something that the other people in the class were going to think was good--since I'd written so little, I figured if I wrote one thing that a lot of people thought was bad, then I was probably a lousy artist. I also remember enjoying the hell out of it and looking forward to it--it was just plain fun to have a class solely devoted to yakking about writing techniques and stories. I had known, going into college, that creative writing was one of my favorite things to study, but I thought I wasn't supposed to major in it because I couldn't get a job after that. I remember how right it felt to switch from Journalism to English that year, in the face of that fear. I have vivid memories of the four other workshops I took at LSU after that, and the two in Prague, and the later ones in Aspen and Portland. And the creative nonfiction that comprised three fourths of my master's thesis. This is my sixth year teaching high school English, and I might be teaching a section or two of creative writing next year. It feels like such a long time ago that I was knee-deep in fiction for the first time, staring at Microsoft Word on our shitty old family desktop from 1996. I can't wait to delve back into the study of it. I mean, I'll have to if I'm teaching it.
***
A choreographer from New York set a piece on us this past weekend. He is this beautiful gay guy from Slovakia whose music tastes and personal style remind me of Reid. Instead of teaching class, he had us do awareness exercises like throwing and catching tennis balls with each other (continually) while simultaneously running around the room in a random pattern. We'd have one going and then he'd add another until we were throwing five or six. We also did a lot of contact improv (which I normally hate) that was more meditative than theatrical. There was one moment where I was standing near him and he used me to demonstrate the excercize. The music was all crackly and droning, and suddenly he and I were improving this pas de deux. I felt a little awkward with the whole company watching, but I was able to let go enough to get to a place where I was just responding to him without thinking. I don't know what it looked like (we were in a studio where you can pull curtains over the mirrors, which he did) but it felt like some pretty cool movement was coming out of it--well of course all of HIS movement is cool, but I felt like some was flowing out of me, too. All I remember is that we were standing, then going to the floor, then I was leaning on him, then the weight would shift, then I was on one leg at one point, then I was backward, and I couldn't hear anything but his breath and the music...hoo. It was really fun. Over the course of the weekend, I had a lot of other good moments of spontaneous choreography with my friends in the company, too (among them, the time I held eye contact with Alex for what felt like five minutes and then had to run through a big group of people while maintaining it). I can't remember the last time I quit worrying about looking silly or awkward, what others were thinking, or just about producing something that didn't suck (when I try to choreograph, write, or improvise anything). (That was something he said a lot, in his Slavic accent, while we were doing movement exercises: Don't feel like you have to produce.)
The piece is okay, I think, but what I enjoyed most about the experience is that it was pure play. As someone in the company described, this guy creates a safe environment for creativity and experimentation. I actually went home and found myself improvising on the piano. I think the last time I did that was eleven years ago in my parents' living room. I don't know why I don't try it more often, but I think it's because even when I'm alone, I can't deal with the pressure to produce. Or maybe I can't stand the idea of producing something dull or terrible, even though I know, logically, that you usually have to produce a bunch of shit before you produce anything good. My ego just wants to be perfect and super-interesting or to not try at all. And the fear that I might reveal to myself the fact that I am really super-boring at my core is what keeps me from experimenting to my fullest expression. I'm also afraid that I have the yearning to create things without the capacity or talent to actually do it, and that I am kind of doomed to experience the discomfort of being artistically stuck for life (just typing this makes me want to giggle at the ridiculousness of this "problem," but if I'm being honest, it's really true!). Intellectually, I know that the concept of being boring or interesting in your soul doesn't make a lot of sense and is certainly less important than, say, being kind or enjoying the present moment. Basically, I inhibit myself in a lot of silly ways that prevent me from feeling free (like a lot of people), like taking myself too seriously and viewing aspects of my experience as permanent. What I really want is to allow myself to feel more freedom and enjoyment through taking more creative risks. And to quit being embarrassed about everything all the time.
Mostly, I just don't make enough space in my life for stillness, which means I don't make enough space for play. Not the kind of play that I already do, like fart around on the internet, watch TV, tease the kitties, drink with friends, or spend time with Leif. The kind of play where--I don't how else to put it--shit flows out of you. And you get that feeling of where the hell did that come from? I've only glimpsed that feeling, and I feel like it comes from that same state of being that I'm in at the end of yoga class, or right when I wake up in the morning, where it feels like strange ideas and sensations are passing through. This could be another reason why I have been having trouble even approaching writing lately--I haven't written from that place in I don't know how long. Maybe I'll experiment with it sometime soon. It takes practice. The thought of practicing something else in my life right now just makes me tired.
Speaking of experimenting, I think I'll be choreographing for our spring show. I haven't set a piece since college. In fact, I think that's the only full dance piece I've ever created. I ended up liking the process and the result, but I don't remember feeling like I was really experimenting or taking any artistic risks. Mostly I remember having a fucking blast and hanging out with people I really liked. I guess I feel that way about my current company, too.
I might be meeting with my director this week to discuss what I'll be doing for the show. This will be a good opportunity to schedule ("force a deadline on") some creative time in my life.
In other news, I can't bring myself to grade papers at home. I'm excruciatingly behind and accepting that for now.
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