Eve Ensler’s “The Vagina Monologues” celebrated its 15th anniversary on Valentine’s Day.  I saw it with three women from different generations:  a young woman in her early 20’s (a personal trainer/reflexologist); another woman whom I’d guess to be in her mid-30’s (a playwright and actor) and her 82 year old mother.

After the show we unanimously said, “I want to see that again.”  The power of listening to the stories had shed a layer of dead skin to allow for the intake of fresh breath that satisfied a dry soul.  The monologues ranged from happy discoveries to sorrowful mourning about femininity and the power of the vagina:  its symbolism and its physical attributes.

The monologues is an anthology of interviews of women from different backgrounds.  The interviewees were asked such questions like, “What would it wear?” “What would it say?”.  These brought about the most passionate and whimsical answers.  There is not any whimsy in giving a voice to a part of a woman’s anatomy that houses her wisdom and her power.   About a quarter of the audience were men.  I think everyone walked away with relief (and not from waiting for the show to finish), but with hearts more open and joyful.

The opening monologue describes how the word vagina in itself sounds unappealing to the ears, like the grating of a fingernail across the chalkboard.  “Vagina,” spoken without emotion. “Vagina”, spoken as a question.  “Vagina,” spoken with demand.  It sounds more like a disease or a medical instrument.  “Pass me the vagina.”

Then the story telling began.  There was the story of a young woman who was raped by a family friend when she was 10 years old.  After many years of being ashamed of her body she was awakened to the beauty of her sexuality by another woman who showed her how to love herself and her body.  She was 16 years old when the healing began.  Another story was from an elderly woman.  She recalled her first date with a boy who was “a real catch”, the term used back in her day.  She described his passionate kiss that surprised and shocked her.  It caused her body to create  a “flood” on the bench seat of his brand new Belair.  He said it smelled like sour milk, unlike his changed mood.  He drove her home in silence and this silence she carried to heart.  She locked up her heart, never to allow for ecstasy to flood her being, except for glimpses of bliss with fantasies of Burt Reynolds.  But always, her fantasies ended with Burt leaving her at the table of a fancy restaurant in Atlantic City, because she created a flood embarrassment in front of his peers, Sammy Davis Jr. and the other boys of the brat pack.  She accused Eve Ensler, “What’s a woman like you going around interviewing old women about that thing down there?”  The down there she also called “the cellar”.  She acquiesced with a a confession that she did feel better, as she’d never told anyone about that.

I’ve watched myself change over the years in my acceptance of myself and the world around me.  I’m grateful that I can still change.  I was raised in a very strict Roman Catholic environment.  A school bus picked me up to attend a private all girls Catholic schools where nuns taught and ruled my 6 to 8 hours of tutelage.  Another bus took me home, and just before 6pm my mother rounded up the household to recite the Angelus at 6:00 pm on the dot.  (I always wanted to know why at 6 pm and not 3 am when we’re all suppose to be in bed fast asleep.)   Worse yet, the rosary would ensue, and the drone of the Hail Marys and Our Fathers would put me into a trance that would rock me from my kneeling position to sit on my haunches.  That would be offensive to God, I thought, so I’d kneel back up.  The only real break from the inane boredom would be the announcement of a new mystery that varied based on the day of the week.  I liked Sundays which comprised of the Glorious Mysteries.

All that background told, I guess my figurative rape was that of my mind and soul.  There was the systematic indoctrination of the “Roman Empire” mentality (a reference from the book “The Heroine’s Journey” by Murdoch.)  The word vagina was dirty in the culture I was brought up in.  When I got older after experienced a little more of the outside world and being married I was bold enough to talk about my sexuality with my mother.  She would get annoyed with me.  She couldn’t control me anymore, but she could still choose to ignore me or shut me down by not responding to my questions or my musings.  She’d say things like, “Why do you have to talk about those things?”  Well, why not?  We’re only talking.  What’s the harm of speaking your thoughts? or did the priest tell you it’s a sin to express your feelings or to question authority?

When I got home from the play I met a neighbor while walking the dog.  I told her I saw the Vagina Monologues.  The reaction was shock that she could barely hide.  The word vagina offended her, I think.  I know she’s a religious woman.  To soften the blow I said, “I know the word Vagina is harsh to some people.”  She nodded and seemingly swallowed back something, I don’t know, “an idea” or “an opinion”.  “It was really good,” I said and tried to explain what the play was about.  But she was not really interested and we moved on to other less intense topics.

Not too far along the block I met another two neighbors.  (I know a lot of people on my block because of my dog.  They often ask about her.)  They’re a couple of lesbians.  I said, ‘Hey, I saw the Vagina Monologues tonight.  It was really good.”  I expected they would be more tolerant or excited to know more about it.  But no.  They either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore what I said.  One of them said, “I can’t do anything for the next couple of weeks.”  She said she has laryngitis.  Her partner blurted out, “She’s going for an operation to get her gall bladder yanked out.”  Ms. Laryngitis exclaimed in a normal tone, “I would’ve told her if I wanted her to know.”  “Well she’s getting her gall bladder out,” the other said.  Wow, I thought… Not even a reaction to the Vagina Monologues.  Oh well, I’m probably zoned in on a thought while others are in their own worlds.  Perfectly normal.  This is life.

What I’ve learned from that exchange is that I had made a very embarrassing assumption that I was unaware I had been holding within.  What I’m about to expose is a shocking revelation to me.  I was nonchalantly thinking that lesbians are feminists.  Conversely I ask myself consciously do I believe that feminists are lesbians?  This is not logical.  Men can be feminists too.  In “The Heroine’s Journey”, Murdoch explains that the words feminine and masculine are not gender specific.  They are qualities innate in both genders.  I knew that but I was not conscious of it.

“The only way a woman can heal this imbalance within herself is to bring the light of consciousness into the darkness.  She must be willing to face and name her shadow tyrant and let it go.  This requires a conscious sacrifice of mindless attachments to ego power, financial gain and hypnotic, passive living.  It takes courage, compassion, humility and time.  The challenge of the heroine is not one of conquest but one of acceptance, of accepting her nameless, unloved parts that have become tyrannical because she has left them unchecked.  We can’t go through life blindly.  We have to examine all of the conflicting part of ourselves… The challenge according to Edward Whitmont, requires “the strength to sustain awareness and teh suffering of conflict and to be able to surrender oneself to it.”  It is the job of the heroine to enlighten the world by loving it – starting with herself.” – Excerpt from “The Heroine’s Journey” by Maureen Murdoch.

I seriously laugh at myself for my square thinking, sometimes.  (I mean I hope my square mentality is a rare occurrence, and I welcome any opportunity to blast it away.)  I am shedding old skin that is being singed as its exposed to white heat.  Some of that “Roman Empire” mentality had absorbed through a layer of skin and I wore it, like a floating film on the surface of a water that made my view of the world murky.

After the show I asked one of the actors how being part of the Vagina Monologues had affected her.  I said, “It is more than just acting a part in a play.  It’s participating in a movement.”  She paused and her face lit up, “yeah, it’s really surprised me how it’s transformed me as an artist.”  She explained that she is more active in promoting awareness of the violence against women on her Facebook account.

I was drawn to Eve Ensler’s work ever since I was exposed to the healing work she began and continues to grow in the DRC.  She started the “City of Joy” in Bocavu, DRC.    It is a shelter for the women victimized by rape and violence.

This is from the website of VDAY.

V-Day is a global movement to end violence against women and girls that raises funds and awareness through benefit productions of Playwright/Founder Eve Ensler’s award winning play The Vagina Monologues. In 2007, more than 3000 V-Day events took place in the U.S. and around the world. To date, the V-Day movement has raised over $80 million and educated millions about the issue of violence against women and the efforts to end it, crafted international educational, media and PSA campaigns, launched the Karama program in the Middle East, reopened shelters, and funded over 5000 community-based anti-violence programs and safe houses in Kenya, South Dakota, Egypt and Iraq. The ‘V’ in V-Day stands for Victory, Valentine and Vagina. http://www.vday.org

I felt wounded when I watched monologue about a woman who was the vessel of the “dirty semen” of the rapists while her husband and children were forced to watch.  She said, “kill me first”, rather than forcing THAT upon us.  I can’t help but participate in some small way to the cause of helping to restore self-esteem and dignity for the women of the DRC by sharing what’s going on there through this blog.  It really is a natural outflow of reading “The Heroine’s Journey”.  It is not a coincidence that I happen to meet someone who told me about “The Vagina Monologues” playing at a theater in LA.  I purposely went and invited other friends to join me.

The closing of the monologues goes something like this:  The vagina is like the heart.  It can heal.  It can accept.  It can endure.  It can open and it can close.  It is like the earth that gives birth, nourishment and it recycles through death and life.

Thank you for reading.

Analyn Revilla

(The Vagina Monologues will be playing another show on Saturday, March 24th, 2012 at the Lyric Hyperion Theater & Cafe.  8pm showing.)

When I lived inVancouverI took a semester on autobiographical writing in 2004. One advice that stuck with me from the teacher was the importance of the writer taking care of their body in the process of digging up the bones of the past. I particularly like the word exhume because of the origin of “hume” coming from humus or earth. Our bodies are like the earth that stores everything. When a writer exhumes the buried memories of the past there is a literal tearing up of the grounds that we stand on.

There are elements of exhuming the past when writing about fiction also. Though a story may not be specifically about me, it is about someone else who is going through or has experienced the elements of the story. The phrase “our biography is our biology” is something I read in a book by Caroline Myss. It was only last year I read her book “Why People Don’t Heal and How They Can”; and it has been over 8 years ago that I took that course on autobiographical writing. There is a truth that both teacher and healer are connected to: We are a sum of all the smaller parts ~ like the calculus course I took in university of integration and derivation.  The findings of both metaphysics and the hard sciences mathematics and physics/biology/chemistry and their offshoots are beginning to converge.  Each generation of scientist and mathematicians are creating better and more sophisticated tools to measure the universe.  We are the sum of the physical, the mental and spiritual composites.

The advice to take care of my body when exhuming the past hit me hard and fast yesterday while I was at work. I had to excuse myself early because I felt ill. My body had slowed down to almost a faint heartbeat, figuratively speaking. I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t eat. My bowels were sluggish. I’m generally a fit and healthy person, and so the state I was in scared me a little. I went home and slept for hours hoping my nerves would calm down. In a relaxed state then maybe my internal systems will start to function normally.

What created this state of chaotic deadness? Well it was a series of events that began with reading “The Heroine’s Journey” by Murdoch. (I don’t want to do the book injustice by summing its message into one or two sentences because it contains so much wisdom.) I was taking a journey with the heroine in my play “Original Sin”, without separating the me from the we. I had dreams of diving into the water and my legs entangled in the snake like arms of giant kelps; I was drawn to stories in the news of women enduring assaults, particularly those exposed by Eve Ensler in the Democratic Republic of Congo.   (See the end of the blog for excerpt of short interviews with 7 victims of rape in DRC in 2008.)

The introduction of the book describes an interview Murdock had with mythologist, Joseph Campbell.

My desire to understand how the woman’s journey relates to the journey of the hero first led me talk with Joseph Campbell in 1981.  I knew that the stages of the heroine’s journey incorporated aspects of the journey of the hero, but I felt that the focus of female spiritual development was to heal the internal split between woman and her feminine nature… I was surprised when he responded that women don’t need to make the journey. “In the whole mythological tradition the woman is there. All she has to do is to realize that she’s the place that people are trying to get to. When a woman realizes what her wonderful character is, she not going to get messed up wit the notion of being pseudo-male.” – Excerpt from “The Heroine’s Journey” by Maureen Murdock

In each chapter of the book Murdock describes in detail the experience of the cycles of the heroine’s journey. In doing my research for the play I think I was in the phase of “Initiation and Descent to the Goddess”.

 Reproduced from the book “The Heroine’s Journey” by Maureen Murdock

The characteristics of this phase involves heaviness like moving through mud with boots that are loose at the ankles. It’s like diving to the bottom of the ocean to retrieve a lost treasure. The deeper we go the more pressure weighs down upon us. As explained by Murdock, most people find it hard to sustain bearing the weight, and the instinct is to resurface. Without the guidance of someone who’s been there before then the novice treasure hunter will quit, perhaps to never return to that place; and never to heal the rift between the self and the feminine.

A woman moves down into the depths to reclaim the parts of herself that split off when she rejected the mother and shattered mirror of the feminine. To make the journey a woman puts aside her fascination with the intellect and games of the cultural mind, and acquaints herself, perhaps for the first time with her body, her emotions, her sexuality, her intuition, her images, her values and her mind. This is what we find in the depths. – Excerpt from “The Heroine’s Journey” by Maureen Murdock

The premise of “Original Sin” is broadly defined to be the separation from the self that is created by the indoctrination of the man-made organizations and hierarchy in a world that is mostly ordered by patriarchy. If we agree with Joseph Campbell that the woman’s mythic journey is not a journey but “the place that people are trying to get to” then I’m feeling more confident that I can find a story that will resonate truth in both men and women.

The healer, the teacher, the playwright and the artist are crying out to respect the feminine that live in all of us.  There is a call to respect mother nature because the womb of the earth and our mothers are our sources of physical origin.  When we separate from the feminine then we lose respect for our origin thus creating a separation from the self and from others and the outcome is a rape of the land and violence towards each other.  In exhuming our past with wisdom then we have the hope of healing and breaking down walls that separate.  Desmond Tutu used the word ubuntu to describe the unity of human kind.  It translates to “me-we”.

-Analyn Revilla

Excerpt of interviews from Democracy Now!  with survivors of sexual violence in the DRC.

In 2008, V-Day worked with UNICEF to organize events in the DRC, where survivors of sexual violence publicly spoke out against violence and about their experiences for the first time. Seven women told their stories in front of community members and government and U.N. officials.

SURVIVOR 1: [translated] When they took my husband and hit him and tied him and tortured him and took him I don’t know where, they went and killed him wherever they had taken him. And then all seven men raped me. Then the neighbors heard what happened and found me unconscious. They looked at me and saw all my insides outside of my body.

SURVIVOR 2: [translated] They started taking the clothes off my children, and I told them, “Please, excuse me, you can’t do that. Instead of raping my children while I watch, just kill me first.”

SURVIVOR 3: [translated] A woman is supposed to be respected. We are not objects. Women get pregnant and breast-feed you. How come you disrespect me today in public?

SURVIVOR 4: [translated] The authorities of this country, how do you look at this rape issue and remain silent?

SURVIVOR 1: [translated] We are suffering because of rape. Rape should stop. It must stop.

SURVIVOR 5: [translated] I am speaking so that women who are hiding and others who have AIDS can come out, so they can be taught how to live.

How do artists face set backs?  By creating, using their imagination and desire to create.  I think that’s the nature of an artist anyhow regardless of whether or not the she is sailing a calm sea with the sails full and the prow pointing closer and closer to her destination; or ferocious winds and choppy waves threaten to sink her ship of dreams – the artist will prevail until she has exhausted all possibilities . 

 A film maker,  I know, is working on his third short film.  It is his biggest project to date and he has poured all of his energy and talent into realizing his dream.   I helped out on the first day of filming, and I recognized the auspiciousness of the event, because he had shared with me the setbacks he had faced on his ongoing journey.  He was financing the whole thing, and there had been multiple delays and each one was adding more cost to the production.

The first setback was a fraud by a contractor he hired to build the set.  Dave paid a down payment with a check.  A few days before the beginning of the  first day of shooting the man called Dave and asked for another check.  He explained that the first check Dave wrote was post dated, neither men  had not noticed the mistake.  Dave gave the man another check, unaware that the first check had already been deposited and the bank had cleared it – despite the post date.   The contractor was now paid in full, but a set had not yet been built.  With the close proximity of the first day of the shoot, Dave had to cancel everything, and file a small claims court to get his money back. 

 A week later Dave told me he had reworked his plan.  He got a loan from the bank, found a new location, a new crew to build the set, created a new schedule.  He looked hopeful and happy; and I was excited for him.  I got in touch with his producer to find out how I can chip in with the purpose of learning and contributing to the process.  My first contribution was to bring coffee for the crew of 16 people.  Friday night, at the figurative “11th hour” there was a phone call from the main lead actor, the night before the first day of the shoot.  The lead actor told Dave that he’s pulling out of the movie, because he got a better offer for a bigger part for another opportunity.  What makes it more bizarre is he called at 11 o’clock at night so it was literally the “11th hour”.  Do people really do  that? I wondered, then upon further thought I decided that this sort of thing DOES happen.   People have been stood up at the altar while guests and family  wonder when the ceremony is going to start.

 I told Dave that it seems when we’re on the right path the gods have this funny way of testing us to see if he was  worthy of the hero’s journey.   They had thrown obstacles in his way to test his will, his resourcefulness, his faith.  Whether or not those words helped him pick himself up and step further into unknown, and probably treacherous territory. 

 Within days another actor was hired; further adjustments were made to the schedule, and finally, yes finally we were on the set.  It was well designed for the film noir genre set in the 40’s.  The space is a renovated warehouse in the San Pedro district.  The makeup artist and the costume designer had set up a make shift office in one of the restrooms.  The other restroom had to be shared by both men and women.  We didn’t care.  We were happy to just be present and to play and create.  Everyone was chipping in to make it happen.  I discovered I have the mechanical skill to adjust the chain links of an old fashioned wristwatch.  “Technical” and “mechanical” tasks had always daunted me, because I’m like a bull in a china shop when it comes to those things but I was fearless this time.  I tacked the task and was able to fit the fake gold watch on the leading actor’s fine-boned wrist.

 The set was ready, the makeup was flawless and the hair was coiffed.  The actors were taped up with the mikes and then Dave let everyone know that he doesn’t use the word “action”.  He doesn’t like the word, because… he never did explain; but just said he’ll say ‘go’. 

 ‘Go’ it went.  After a few rehearsals the camera rolled.  I observed Dave’s style as he communicated clearly without hesitation the what and the how of the scenes to everyone.  It was as if he had played the situation in his head a million times over and he can detect the minute differences between his vision and what he saw played out.  He made adjustments quickly then moved on.   

Later in the evening I got home from a walk with the dog; there was a voicemail from Dave.  He said, ‘don’t know if you heard, but we got shut down today.  The production has been stopped because the Fire Marshal said the building is not up to code.”  Questions fired in my head, but I held them in check as I listened to Dave lament the situation.  How can he go on?   What more can be thrown into this pyre of drama?  While he talked I wondered what consolation can I offer Dave and to encourage him to go on.  Even I was at a loss, and dumbfounded with his news. 

Though he was willing to buy the fire permit (a cost of $700) it would be moot, because the building is on a fire watch.  The other alternative to continue filming in the same location is to pay the city $65 per hour to have a Fire Marshall present during the entire production.  He couldn’t afford it.

 I could only advice him not to make any decisions without giving himself a chance to rest.  Sleep on it I told him.  We drew out the conversation between regaling the previous setbacks and this new one.  As we hashed out the events I began to hear him speak of new ideas, though woven in and out of the hope were some voices of doubt, fear and fatigue.  Before we hung up he had spoken powerful words:  “I know I can do this.”  “There were some amazing footages I can use.”  “Did you see the amazing footages?”  “It’s a great feeling to see everyone pour themselves into this.”   I know that those words has been planted in his subconscious which will help him go on. 

His journey in itself is the worthy of a good drama full of surreal images like a strange dream.  Where did all these people come from and what does it mean?  Who invited these ghosts, monsters, angels and fairies?  The gods have a way of insinuating a fuller drama into the situation by putting the hero into more peril than he had ever imagined.  It’s perhaps their way of bringing out the best creation from the artist.

The epiphany came to me last night at 4 o’clock in the morning.  I had a restless sleep for many reasons including knowing that the first part of the blog was not yet developed, and I didn’t yet have a clue what Part 2 is all about.  I do know it’s something to do with the human condition.

The exploration really began when I started to take in the words of Joseph Campbell in his book, “The Power of Myth”.  His language based on Jung’s archetypes led me to the Carol S. Pearson’s book, “The Hero Within”.  I finally finished the chapter on the Martyr archetype, and it was the one chapter I was avoiding.  I had a resistance to this archetype because it screamed “Mother!” to me.  I don’t think I need to explain, but I will say that I’m not a mother so I wouldn’t fully know the self-sacrifice that mothers do for the love of their off-springs.  However, I am aware of my repulsion towards the needless sacrifice when it hurts the person who gives so much of themself.  The words, “I don’t want to be part of it” are conjured up from my whole being.

I read through the chapter as though I was watching a horror movie, like the first time I saw “The Exorcist”.  I would squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears during parts of the movie I couldn’t stomach in.  I didn’t want to absorb any of it at any level.  But I knew that I already had done this when my reaction was to run away and pretend it does not exist.  It does exist, otherwise I wouldn’t have built this resistance to it.

So I faced the words and my legs were trudging through the tar sands.  “Ahh, this is soooo painfully slow.”  It took me longer than it should have to finish the chapter as I found “necessary” distractions (food, coffee, walk the dog, organize my desk…)  Eventually I finished and was rewarded (though I didn’t expect that at all.)  I did not know this chapter would have the answer, or part of it, in my quest to understand the human condition of death.

“The  Wanderer, The Warrior, and the Magician learn increasingly sophisticated lessons about ways to control theri lives and destinies.  Ironically, it is only when this control is achieved that the hero can let it go and learn the final lesson of martydom – the acceptance of mortality.  Death is basic to nature.  The leaves fall of the tree every autumn and make possible spring blossoms.  All animal life, including humans, lives by eating other life forms…  The cosmic dance of birth and death… speaks to us of Eros – passion.  What it requires of us is abandonment of our fears of loss (including our fear of death) into the ecstasy of live and living.” – Carol S. Pearson (“The Hero Within”)

Ultimately she says that the we may reject the “sacrifice philosophy”, but we will discover that we martyr ourselves to our wandering, warrioring and may even our magic-making archetypes until we are more free and fearless in our giving, because it feels less like sacrifice but simply an expression of who we are. 

It was a relief.  I know have a better understanding and acceptance of my mother’s behavior.  She would always  save the best morsel of food on her plate for me.  I want her desperately to enjoy it for herself, and it annoyed me then that she would not allow herself that pleasure.  I could not accept her self-sacrifice.  But now I have a better understanding of her motivation to give without thinkig of herself first.

Back to our hero in “Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?”m Deckard’s morale issue is simplified by Rachel when she kills his real live Nubian goat after he sent her away.  She went to his apartment building and un-abashedly pushed the animal to its death over the edge of the building with Deckard’s wife and neighbor witnessing the act.  Upon hearing the news he couldn’t comprehend the useless waste of a precious life.  The duality of giving life and killing life is hard to put to one simple sentence in my own words, so I can only repeat:  “Life Beget Life” and “Life Feeds on Life”.

I won’t give the rest of the novel’s story, in case you’re interested in reading the book.  The ending is different from teh movie.  It was written by Philip Dick, and it’s the novel that inspired the movie, “Blade Runner” which I fell in love with the first time I watched it.  I’ve always wanted to read the book, and it came to me without looking for it when someone had left a bagful of books for donation at the frontdoor of my former apartment building in Hollywood.  (I am a believer of synchronicity.)

As an example, I really did not expect to find an answer to my exploration to one aspect of the human condition.  It is infinite, and I’m so glad of that.

I am exploring an idea so I’m breaking it into two parts. 

Empathy towards the androids?  Rick Deckard, the hero in the novel “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep”, faces the dilemma of having to choose between killing or not killing the renegade androids required of his job as a bounty hunter.  If he continues on his mission then to be effective he decides that he would need the help of the only android available to him who knows the inner workings of the android mentality.  Her name is Rachel Rosen, and she is the prototype android that was created for the pleasure of the colonists inhabiting the other planets.  Unavoidably, he’s discovered he’s attracted to her beyond her professional qualifications.  Another effective bounty hunter sees Deckard’s problem, and tells him to sleep with her then kill her.

Killing is against his philosophy to respect all living things, and though androids are living they do not qualify as human beings or an animal.  He has managed thus far in his career to keep the organization of an organic living entity separate from the non-organic living entity.  But the lines begin to blur, especially since he’s been acting as a caretaker of an electric sheep.  Everyone dreams of owning a real animal.  Most animals and insects have become extinct since the fallout of the dust.  Owning a fake, though, very real-looking sheep “sapped his morale”.  

His assignment to kill the renegade androids who escaped from a colony in Mars will reward him with $1,000.00 per kill, and he’ll be able to afford something real if can “retire” the 6 androids who came to Earth.  They had escape a life of servitude to the emigrants of the colony, for which thet were created of toiling for the human beings.  But neither their creators nor the androids expected an evolutionary possibility/probability the androids would develop a sense of individuation – a self-governing entity with its own purpose. 

 As Deckard knocks off 3 of the six remaining androids in his list, he begins to doubt his ability to kill the last 3 androids.  In desperation to finish the job and fully own a real animal he calls the “Rachel Rosen” prototype and they sleeps with her.  After having sex with her he aims his laser tube to kill her.  She is, by design, cooperative and instructs him to do it painlessly by pointing him to the exact spot to aim.  He aims, but he can’t fire, and sends her away.  “I’m not going to kill you.”  The hero straddles the worlds of his analytical self and his empathic self.

Empathy, as one android suspects is the quality that differentiates herself from the human being.  She orders another android to experiment with cutting off the legs of a spider to see if it can still walk with only 6 legs instead of 8.  The other android uses a pair of cuticle scissors and dutifully cuts off 4 legs.  Isidore, a servile and grateful human being, nicknamed as “Chickenhead” (because of his low IQ) befriends the remaining renegades.  Considered a “special” he is treated with painful pity by society, given only a menial job to serve the community.  He is constantly aware of his burden.  He presents the spider, as a gift, to the droids; but witnesses the cruelty and inhumane torture the spider is subjected to.  Unable to withstand the torture any further, he takes the spider and drowns it in the kitchen sink.  The androids look on with fascination only.

In the last 24 hours I’ve been thinking about “The Human Condition”.  I thought I would paint the words in big bold letters on the wall opposite my desk.  It would be a reminder of the frail human condition.  What is it about seeing a life unfold, like the uncurling of a petals of a flower to its fullness, and it permeates your senses with its fragrance and its heart-breaking beauty?  It’s a wonder.  And knowing at the same time that at its peak it is also quickly receding to its death, each molecule decomposing to its basic building elements that all organic and inorganic matter is made of.  I somehow begin to know the meaning of the expression “Life begets life.” 

It’s complicated beyond words.  I think I had to reach a certain age, or experience life to a certain breadth and depth to begin to grasp its profoundness.  I’ve seen hints of it in the poetry of the lyrics of the band “Tool”.  Their version of it is “Life Feeds On Life.”

 Here’s a link to the song on YouTube, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luSJiBjqz_s

The lyrics below with credits go to Tool.

Life Feeds On Life

And the angel of the Lord came unto me,

Snatching me up from my

Place of slumber,

And took me on high,

And higher still until we

Moved in the spaces betwixt the air itself.

And he bore me unto a

Vast farmland of our own midwest,

And as we descended cries of

Impending doom rose from the soil.

One thousand, nay, a million

Voices full of fear.

And terror possessed me then.

And I begged,

 

“Angel of the Lord, what are these tortured screams?”

And the angel said unto me,

“These are the cries of the carrots,

The cries of the carrots.

You see, reverend Maynard, tomorrow is harvest day

And to them it is the holocaust.”

And I sprang from my slumber drenched in sweat

Like the tears of one millions terrified brothers

And roared,

“Hear me now,

I have seen the light,

They have a consciousness,

They have a life,

They have a soul.

Damn you!

Let the rabbits wear glasses,

Save our brothers…can I get an amen?

Can I get a hallelujah? thank you, Jesus.

 

Life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on…

This is necessary

 

It was daylight when you woke up in your ditch.

You looked up at your sky.

That made blue be your color.

You had your knife with you there too.

When you stood up there was goo all over your clothes.

Your hands were sticky.

You wiped them on your grass,

So now your color was green.

Oh Lord, why did everything always have

To keep changing like this?

You were already getting nervous again.

Your head hurt and it rang when you stood up.

Your head was almost empty.

It always hurt you when you woke up like this.

You crawled up out of your ditch unto your gravel road

And you began to walk

And waited for the rest of your mind to come back to you.

You could see the car parked far down the road

And you walked toward it.

If God is our father, you thought,

Then Satan must be our cousin.

Why didn’t anyone else understand these important things?

When you got to your car,

You tried all the doors,

But they were locked.

It was a red car and it was new.

There was an expensive leather camera case lying on the seat.

Out across your field

You could see two tiny people walking by your woods.

You began to walk towards them.

Now red was your color and of course,

Those little people out there were yours too.

The day before New Year’s Day I discovered one of my neighbors had cut down a very old rubber tree.  This tree was majestic, and its wide girth supported big boughs and its leaves provided a welcoming shade from the sun when I walk my dog from one end of Orange Grove to Olympic Blvd.  In my grief, I picked up the remnants – a chunk of wood and two leaves and saved them as a remembrance of that beautiful old thing.

On that same weekend I had tucked into a book called “The Hero Within”, by Carol S. Pearson.  The book is about the 6 archetypes that we live by, and she identifies them as the Innocent, the Orphan, the Wanderer, the Martyr, the Warrior and the Magician.  The book is helpful for stepping outside of the trees and getting a bird’s eye view of the forest of the story.  It shows how the personal is universal in its use of the archetypes to describe the hero’s journey. 

The Innocent and the Orphan, she considers, to be the pre-heroic phase. When the Innocent transforms to the Orphan, the character moves from a place of seeing the world as the Garden of Eden that provides for everything he/she needs to that of the loss of paradise.  The metaphor of the loss of paradise is the loss of innocence which is the awakening to the reality of suffering:  We can’t always get what we want.  (Those words always brings to my mind the Mick Jaggers’ lamenting voice “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes well you might find you might just get what you need.”)  The lyrics of that song is actually apt for the situation of the journey from Innocent to Orphan. 

The Innocent and the Orphan is the setup needed for the character to “grow up” and take responsibility for themselves, before they can journey into the other archetypes and the lessons to be learned from those views.  In the Orphan phase the person has a strong tendency to hide from reality and and not deal with the situation..  To move from denial to acceptance requires an awakening to the betrayal of a lie, an acknowledgement of the pain of the loss of innocence – in essence going through the suffering.

Grief is hard to bear.  It’s frightful to see a raging fire.  That fire is the rage within that dispels the suffering into actions (or lack of) that are unhealthy and keeps the character stuck in that mode of powerlessness.  He/she cannot embark on the journey.  An example would be addictions – whether it’s substance abuse or creating dramas in our lives. 

As writers we are curious about this rage; we want to know what’s feeding that fire?  We have this instinct to expose the rage so that we can shed light on our humanity.  Carolyn Myss said, “Our biology is our biography.”  Human beings are constantly expressing themselves in ways we don’t see on the surface.  They may not be saying, “I’m hurting”, but their body language or the situations they get themselves into certainly display their state of being.  The Orphan archetype grabs on to anything that can alleviate the pain.  The character willingly aligns himself/herselt to a political movement; a philosophy; a religion; therapy – something that they can identify with – even journaling to see their pain and validate it.  It is a form of denial but is a step towards the awareness of the pain.  But to experience transformation, the character needs to be purified by the fire by going through it.  They need to accept the pain and feel it which is essentially the  grieving process.  In this journey, the Orphan becomes part of the greater whole because he/she awakens to the fact “Everyone suffers.”

Have you heard about the Buddhist parable of the mustard seed?  I quite like it.  Here’s one version I found:  http://www.sacred-texts.com/bud/btg/btg85.htm.  An excerpt from the link above:

And Kisa Gotami had an only son, and he died. In her grief she carried the dead child to all her neighbors, asking them for medicine, and the people said: “She has lost her senses. The boy is dead. At length Kisa Gotami met a man who replied to her request: “I cannot give thee medicine for thy child, but I know a physician who can.” The girl said: “Pray tell me, sir; who is it?” And the man replied: “Go to Sakyamuni, the Buddha.”

Kisa Gotami repaired to the Buddha and cried: “Lord and Master, give me the medicine that will cure my boy.” The Buddha answered: “I want a handful of mustard-seed.” And when the girl in her joy promised to procure it, the Buddha added: “The mustard-seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend.” Poor Kisa Gotami now went from house to house, and the people pitied her and said: “Here is mustard-seed; take it!” But when she asked Did a son or daughter, a father or mother, die in your family?” They answered her: “Alas the living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief.” And there was no house but some beloved one had died in it.

Kisa Gotami became weary and hopeless, and sat down at the wayside, watching the lights of the city, as they flickered up and were extinguished again. At last the darkness of the night reigned everywhere. And she considered the fate of men, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished. And she thought to herself: “How selfish am I in my grief! Death is common to all; yet in this valley of desolation there is a path that leads him to immortality who has surrendered all selfishness.”

Suffering can be a gift when the hero opens up to accepting the fullness of life.  We are witnesses to it all the time. Watch the transition of a tree through the seasons.  It’s a reminder of the cyclical and linear passage of time that is akin to the movement of the hero through the various archetypes.  We’re in a state of constant contraction and expansion; and each cycle of this is growth like the rings of a trunk of the tree exposed.

First thing I want to express is to say “Thank you.”  I am coming from a place of gratitude that ‘We are here.”  It’s a brand new year, and we’re together and we’re inspired with our list of intentions and aspirations.  Ready, set, go!

Thank you to Jennie and Jim for hosting a very warm and gracious Christmas party at their home.  The spread on the table was full of wholesome, handmade goodies from Jennie’s kitchen, and there was hot mulled cider on the stove to welcome the guests.

 I thought I’d kick off the blog of 2012 with what’s been sitting with me.  After a few relaxed days away from the office, and just busying myself with cleaning and organizing my living space, these words came to me:  “Let go and Let God.”  (No.  This is not going to be a pontificating blog.)  I came upon the phrase from a Wayne Dyer audio book.  (I spent a summer travelling between San FranciscoandLos Angeles, and listened to a lot of audio books.)  The book was his interpretation of the Tao Te Ching.

 “Let go and Let God.”  How does this apply to my work, my purpose, my “I must”?  Okay, here’s one:  Writing would be easy if I could always write from a place of inspiration.

 This is not an easy thing for me to do, because a typical day is full distractions, and the “other” work that I do to survive.  The interesting twist is the work that I do to survive is really the writing.  If I couldn’t write then I would wither inside.  The first letter of Maria Rilke to the young poet Hans Kapus is to give the advice to seek from within for his “I must”.

 “…my dear sir, I know no advice for you have this:  to go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise, at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create.  Accept it, just as it sounds, without inquiring into it.  Perhaps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist.  Then take that destiny upon yourself and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what recompense might come from outside.  For this creator must be a world for himself and find everything in himself and in Nature to who he has attached himself.” – From “Letters To A Young Poet” (translation by M.D. Herter Norton).

 When I read Rilke’s words I am reminded of another writer whose story I can relate to, because of the circumstances he wrote many of his works, especially that of “Gulag Archipelago”.  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote about the labour and concentration camp as a prisoner within the barbed wires of the camp.  He wrote the book in the midst of a wasteland, where there was little, if not any, resources available to sustain a human being.  If that does not inspire anyone to create regardless of whatever circumstances he/she is mired in then perhaps being an artist is not their true calling.  It must be strong force from within, that is as basic as breathing air, but is conscious and needs homage with action.

 I relate to Solzhenitsyn’s story because on another level I live in a wasteland of the belief that I need to be inspired to write.  This is not always possible when balancing the spinning plates of the survival work, the “I must” work, and taking the time to be in a quiet place.  That quiet place can be a meditative space where the sky is constantly blue, the backdrop to the constantly moving clouds.  The clouds are like my passing thoughts that I have the tendency to attach meanings to, and sometimes obsess about.  I mistake them to be the “I must”.  I must buy this.  I must get that.  I should call my mother, or I must do laundry… and the list goes on.

 The “I must” could just be that stillness to let the inspiration to flow through me, and to be part of the flow to create.  And if I’m still long enough an opening begins that I’m not so focused on the distractions.  They are still there, but my attention has shifted to the source of a light that reveals a truth.  That truth needs expression without judgment.  Say it as it is.  To let go without judging if it is good or bad, but accepting it for what it is.  Then to trust the creation, because its source comes from a very deep place that I and everyone else taps into – the source which is like the aquifers that sustains life on this planet. 

 The cool thing about LAFPI’s blog practice is we are a community of trust.  Bloggers are not asked to run their work through our editor.  The implicit trust is born from knowing we’re all coming from the same place – respect each others’ contribution that is unique and worthwhile.  We want to nudge and tickle something out of each other to bring forth aliveness in our quest for creativity. 

 I had some reservations about the first to write the blog for 2012.  Wow, I thought… I have to say something good.  Pshaw…Are you kidding Analyn?  Just be yourself.  It will be what it is.  As long as speaks from the heart then I’ve done my work.

 At lunch yesterday the subject of Seth Godin came up. My friend had read his book “The Dip.” He is quoted by J.D. Meier (who works at Microsoft and leads project teams on Agile project. He has authored several technical books.) He said, “Seth Godin is an author, an agent of change, a meaning maker, and an Idea Merchant.”

 The “agent of change” interested me.  I was reminded of  when Obama threw his hat into the presidential race; and the buzz word was “change.”  And when he finally got into office there was a collosal global rush of air that was released like a when you’ve held your breath for too long.

 It seems to me we are all agents of change when we consider the list of heroic acts of people who have changed situations:  Egyptians protested against the 30 year reign of Mubarak; 3 women are the recent recipients of the Nobel Peace Prize for being full participants in peace building work in the most war-torn countries; and then there are the ongoing protests against the financial institutions across the world in support of the “Occupy Wall Street Movement”.

 “Do people really change?” I asked my friend.  He said, “Naw, some people do change, but the vast majority don’t. And those people that do change are never truly comfortable in their new skin. Even when people are like “Oh, you’ve changed”, it’s like “No, I’m finally able to be myself”. Like The Scorpion and the Frog.  This is who you are, deal with rock and roll.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scorpion_and_the_Frog.

What brings about change? What would force anyone to change their direction and ways? Another friend described a questionnaire he had to fill out at a medical office and he was surprised at some of the psychological questions such as “Have you ever thought about suicide?”  Shocking at first, but after thinking about it I wondered if anyone can honestly admit they have not thought about death.  Yes to consider suicide is something deeply wounding, but considering suicide for the clinical and objective curiousity of it.  (The story line of the movie “Kissed”  is about a a child’s romantic ideals about death, and how it turns to necrophilia, and the study of embalming, and finally affecting her relationship with a man who kills himself so she could love him in his death state.)

 If there is any agent of change that is powerful and lasting I’d vote death as the winner. I wear a pendant made from a tusk of a Wooly Mammoth that was unearthed in the Northwest Territories of Canada. It has been carved into a skull. I wear it most times (even to work.) It’s a reminder to me of change, and acceptance of the nature of death and dying. My whacky point of view is that it is life that kills you. When I think about that pendant and its source I think that death brings me life, because it makes me aware of the finiteness of time as perceived in the living form; and how we cling to permanence such as our ideologies, practices, philosophies and our niches and fetishes that gives us identity.

 Our identity is perceived as valuable, and we attach idenfication cards as a means of giving us form: driver’s license; passports, social security numbers. There is now the crime of “identity theft”. I can name a few forms of identity change of hands: stealing dead peoples’ identity for collecting welfare benefits; stealing peoples’ financial data; FBI’s witness protection program; identical twins playing pranks on people.

 How we change internally and externally changes our identity and how we relate to the external world and how we feel about ourselves; this incorporates a change in attitude towards ourselves, how treat ourselves and how others will treat us. It’s so reciprocative.  People go for hypnosis sessions to change habits. People pay lots of money to get nose jobs, boob jobs and lifts and tucks. People will still lose their advantage over their willpower and binge on sweets. When the masses overturn the oligarchy in Wall Street what “new” face will sit in the executive board room? Are we bound to repeat our history based on DNA and our conditioning?

  “No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.” – Steve Jobs

 But he did preview that with:

  “Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life.  Because almost everything, all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.” – Steve Jobs

Bringing it all home, what is it in practice for me? The smallest and simplest thing makes so much difference. I hate to say that I will probably still hit the snooze button tomorrow morning. But I’m still hoping not to, and that will be like letting out that breath of air I’ve held too long.  Follow my heart…  Do what matters…There is no formula…

I will close with a couple of Bruce Lee quotes:

• Art is the way to the absolute and to the essence of human life. The aim of art is not the one-sided promotion of spirit, soul and senses, but the opening of all human capacities – thought, feeling, will – to the life rhythm of the world of nature. So will the voiceless voice be heard and the self be brought into harmony with it.
• Flow in the living moment. — We are always in a process of becoming and nothing is fixed. Have no rigid system in you, and you’ll be flexible to change with the ever changing. Open yourself and flow, my friend. Flow in the total openness of the living moment. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves. Moving, be like water. Still, be like a mirror. Respond like an echo. 

Working in an office there is the cycle of the highs, the lows and the flatliners during during the week. Some of you can relate to the mood patterns as it transitions from Monday Blues to TGIF – Happy Friday! Comic strips, I find, are best at depicting the reality of the workplace.

Credit to Tatsuya Ishida

So today is Tuesday, near the end of the day, and I’m between tasks. I can’t quite get up my excitement to start the next task, so I hang out with the mailroom guy for a wacky conversation to give me a fresh insight on life. (Pretending to “work” at my desk when I’m really checking my email or doing personal research can sometimes feel empty unless I can do it with full permission from my manager (not likely to happen.)) I walk into the mailroom and my buddy looks up. “What’s a five letter word for a mountain?” “Ararat”, I said. He plugs it into his “Nook”, and he’s happy, “Hey that worked!” I hung out a little longer as I too was happy to be doing something interactive with somebody, instead of being in my head doing “design work”.We get a few more words together doing team work. Then I take my leave as my conscience beckons me to go back to my desk and start the new task. Argh… resistance. I don’t want to go into the ivory towers yet. It’s too lonely. It’s too hard. I want fun.

I shake my myself mentally to wake up! “What matters now?” How does what’s happening outside these four walls affect me? I feel so insulated often working in my little world (which is actually scary because I swear I’ve become less intelligent that my skills and knowledge is like this solid single tap root about computer acronyms and methodologies that noone outside of my co-workers really care to know about. As an IT person I’m the one who makes the business users successful. I am like the elf that makes the toys so Santa can give them away and make the kids happy; or the the person operating the lights and sounds on the stage to hi-light the mood of the situation on the stage.)

Then I hone in on my sense of smallness and the fear of it, and it leads me to a discovery. “Wow, this is how Paul feels.” (Paul is a character in my play.) My curiousity and interest in working on the play again is re-awakened. I’m like a child again full of “Wow!” These characters are real. “Wow!” I can’t just design them like a stick figure. They have skeletons and muscles, a nervous system, and they get all gooey and sticky. Gee, I’ve had it wrong for awhile to think that I can manipulate these characters. I can only put them into specific conditions and circumstances and observe and record what they say, do and think.

And I know now why I was stuck for awhile, and I was afraid to get back into the ring to fight the battle. I was already trying to manipulate the outcome of the encounter.   And this is countered by another awesome quote from Bruce Lee:

 

The great mistake is to anticipate the outcome of the engagement; you ought not to be thinking of whether it ends in victory or defeat. Let nature take its course, and your tools will strike at the right moment. – Bruce Lee.

 

The tools being all my senses especially my heart so that I can write truthfully instead of from the head. I was trying to “figure out” the outcome of the play, when it’s an organic living story, because it is made up of real characters of my imagination and heart. Without the heart, the story will be like the manufactured “perfect” apple on display at the window of a furniture store. It’s not the beautiful smelling apple that someone wants to bite into.

And so it is with my office work too. Yes it can get dry with all that heady stuff, but if I design it with heart – with the intent of making something beautifully functional for my users then I’ve done my job right.  That’s what matters now (figuratively and literally for me.)  Back to work!

Connecting the dots can only happen by putting rubber to the pavement. For writers it means showing up and putting tracks down on the page regularly – every day, the way a martial artist trains wholly (mentally, physically and spiritually) for the encounter with an opponent. I am going to weave between two great thinkers and doers: Steve Jobs and Bruce Lee.  There are many common threads to their philosophies, and I am hilighting persistence and passion.

The original thought and words about “connecting the dots” came from the commencement speech to the graduating class of 2005 at Stanford given by Steve Jobs.  He said,

“Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.” (http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/june15/jobs-061505.html)

I agree with what he said, and I’m adding: in hindsight it’s also important to only dwell briefly on the past, and to continue to improve on the past.

Last week in my activing class there were numerous times when I felt fed up with listening to the self-directed put downs an artist puts upon themselves for not putting in time into their creation work. I’m not so much fed up with hearing about their complaints, but how their words and the feelings resonate in my own life. I heard the stories of the woes spent on distractions such as eating, talking on the phone, surfing the internet, or cleaning the apartment instead of just sitting down and doing the work. “Yes, I know… I know…I do it too. Now tell me something I don’t know.”

I admire the resolute compassion the teacher has for dealing with the situation, because she had the experience and the vision to guide the student to a higher truth. The practice in the class is to have the mentality of “from this moment forward.” This means to get on with it, and stop flagellating yourself with self-defeating thoughts and words. In the quiet of my own thoughts I faced my own defeats. I felt shameful with thoughts of: Where is the authenticity of meaning what you say? Why is the realization of an idea so hard? What road blocks am I putting up over and over?

I scour books on Zen, Psychology, Philosophy, Drama Art, Anthropology, Archaelogy, and the answer is all there but I can not see it or I’m just not ready to see it.

The gap – that lag time between conception and birth. “When is it gonna be?” I ask like a bored and impatient child with the wild mind. Rather organize my life to accommodate as best as possible the art that needs to happen I have a tendency to run away and allow for distractions to trickle into the “important stuff”. Again I recall the practice at the studio (or the dojo in this case) – “from this moment forward”, and it means to let go of the past – the transgressions of not having done the work, and make re-commit to doing better next time. It is wasted energy to flog oneself for opportunity missed. I think John Little describes it pretty well in the book “The Art of Expressing the Human Body” (by Bruce Lee, John Little)

“Lee believed each day brought the opportunity to improve ourselves physically and mentally; we could choose either to seize the moment to take a step closer to maximizing our potential and progress, or to decline the opportunity and thereby stagnate and regress.”

To complain and rehash the past is stagnating. It can become a harmful and addictive pattern to touch that hardened scar over and over without the intention of healing within, and propelling forward. So as artists, we are all vulnerable to be very hard on ourselves when we miss the mark we set for ourselves. So today was not the best for producing any gems. In fact today may was only a hollow image staring back at me.

 (Credit to Authors:  Bruce Lee and John Little of the “The Art of Expressing the Human Body)

 As the martial artist shows up at the dojo practicing that kick 10,000 times so I too must show up at the desk exercising my imagination and strengthening my courage to create. There are many layers to why that is, but among the leaves that fall to the ground, one that reminds me of my purpose as a writer is ‘for the love of it.’ And with that thought I am back to the beginner mind which found joy in the journey I began with 5 years ago.