By Analyn Revilla

I am faced with the dilemma of being honest with myself about things that aren’t savory to know even about me. Once in a while, when I can no longer hold it, I pee in a bucket, in the morning, because I don’t want to intrude while my husband has his shower. Is that really so bad? Is that TMI? And that it’s really okay that I did it, and others don’t really need to know my confession. Is it that I was just being lazy? I guess it is, though I mask it with the excuse that I don’t want to intrude on my husband’s shower time. Couldn’t I just get up earlier to pee before I make the coffee? Or just knock on the door and excuse myself.

7 Deadly Sins in 365 days is a funny book with outrageous suggestions, some of which I discovered I’ve already done, or put into regular practice. A book like this makes me laugh at myself, and poke fun at my own seriousness. I think we do some things we feel ashamed of, but do not really understand that reason for the shame. Was it something bred into us by society – our family and institutions? Or is it truly a self-conscious evaluation to determine our moral goodness.

Some of suggestions are harmless fun, while others require some evaluation of the consequences. Some harmless fun (or not so harmless, but socially deviant) are fart in a crowded elevator; pee in the pool – I know I’ve done one of these before but not on purpose or malice in mind. If premeditated then I’d put them in the basket of childhood pranks; while the other prescribed actions takes some real guts, some degree of craziness, I really wanted to do it anyway: blow all your savings on the lottery; get drunk before going to work; take a 24 hour break from your relationship.

Those actions are symptomatic of problems. They are ‘acting out’ on something deeper. If I spent my savings on the lottery then it is an act of desperation – and a signal that I have lost hope. If I get drunk before going to work then it is symbolic of my avarice towards my work place, and the need to numb myself from the people and the environment. If I take a 24 hour break from my husband, carte blanche, and had a fling then I’m probably not fulfilled in my marriage. Acting out does not make me an evil person, though I certainly would feel a deep sense of guilt and shame in going through with one of the three actions above.

Boy, I would consider myself damned lucky if I did win the lottery in a big way if I spent my savings on the lottery. Can I dodge people at work to mask the alcohol on my breath? I have to weigh the odds. There is a thought process in our choices. We do a check and balance accounting of the probability and consequences. What price am I willing to pay for my choices and actions?

I’ve been curious about the nature of evil. I was raised Catholic until I was able to break away into a practice suited to my nature. In my experience, and I say this in hindsight, that the indoctrination I got from attending a strict Catholic school ruled by nuns leaned heavily upon a “too-literal” interpretation of the scriptures. Had I not had the personal conviction to explore my own spirituality and the courage to re-think by asking questions and experimenting with my ideas, then I may not have matured spiritually. Had I remained afraid of being condemned blasphemous or I couldn’t risk the possibility that my parents would disown me then I probably wouldn’t be writing this blog.

One of the most useful books I read on the subject of the nature of evil was People of The Lie by Scott M. Peck. As a psychiatrist he untangled the complex input and output between what is normal behavior and what is evil. Prior to reading People of the Lie, I read his first book, The Road Less Travelled. I chose that book because it explored the concept of “Original Sin”. My own exploration of “Original Sin” is that it is our doubt of our inherent good nature. Why do we have this doubt? My hypothesis is when we are born, we are molded to be “good” by external entities from our parents, the church (if we are raised in a religion), schools, civil governments – the gamut of organizational institutions. That we need external bodies outside of our own good judgment to measure our sense of morality removes the responsibility of aspiring to be good from the individual. It is not a conscious decision. Life happens and we act based on our abilities and the circumstances.

When I juxtapose that argument/reasoning to the author’s description of evil:

Scott Peck says, “For adults to be the victims of evil, they must be powerless to escape. They may be powerless when a gun is held to their head…Or they may be powerless by virtue of their own failure of courage…Whenever adults not at gunpoint become victims of evil it is because they have–one way or another–bound [themselves] by chains of laziness and dependency….settling for a child’s impotence.”

What I begin to understand is I go through a painful self-examination of my nature and my existence almost daily. I have many moments of deep anguish, anxiety and anger (not all at once, though sometimes yes), and how do I release the pressure to act good in the face of evil. I halt to go further to describe my own personal religious beliefs. I do go further to say that I believe I am inherently good with a bend for fun for fun’s sake, and that what is good for the goose is also good for the gander.

The wrinkles on my hands and face are threads of living the routine between work and home, along with the news absorbed from the papers, the elevators, the internets and conversations. There are plenty of situations that play out the battle between good and evil. It’s a theme that’s been played out since the first story told about Adam and Eve in the garden, passed down to the generations thru Cain and Abel to the stories that we watch on the big screen: Captain America, Spider Man, Malficent.

I read the play The Last Train by Natacha Astuto. I’ll be interviewing her this week before the preview of her play this coming Thursday at Schkapf Obsucra. Among my questions to her will be her thoughts about the nature of evil, because her play has undercurrent of the evil nature of a psychopath. The question of good and evil is simply not light versus dark as told in the most rudimentary of storytelling. I liked how the dance of evil and good is played out in the movie The Matrix, because it portrays it as a play of lights and shadows with brushstrokes of surrealism.

Morpheus: I imagine that right now you’re feeling a bit like Alice. Tumbling down the rabbit hole?

Neo: You could say that.

Morpheus: I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he’s expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo?

Neo: No.

Morpheus: Why not?

Neo: ‘Cause I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my life.

Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you’re here. You’re here because you know something. What you know, you can’t explain. But you feel it. You felt it your entire life. That there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is, but it’s there. Like a splinter in your mind — driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Neo: The Matrix?

Morpheus: Do you want to know what it is? (Neo nods his head.) Morpheus: The Matrix is everywhere, it is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window, or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work, or when go to church or when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

Neo: What truth?

Morpheus: That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else, you were born into bondage, born inside a prison that you cannot smell, taste, or touch. A prison for your mind. (long pause, sighs) Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself. This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. (In his left hand, Morpheus shows a blue pill.)

Morpheus: You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. (a red pill is shown in his other hand) You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. (Long pause; Neo begins to reach for the red pill) Remember — all I am offering is the truth, nothing more. (Neo takes the red pill and swallows it with a glass of water)

Credit to “The Matrix” written by Andy Wachowski & Larry Wachowski)

A quote from another book for consideration:

Erich Fromm, The Heart of Man: Its Genius for Good and Evil:

The longer we continue to make the wrong decisions, the more our heart hardens; the more often we make the right decisions, the more our heart softens–or better perhaps, comes alive…Most people fail at the art of living not because they are inherently bad or so without will that they cannot lead a better life; they fail because they do not wake up and see when they stand at a fork in the road and have to decide. They are not aware when life asks them a question, and when they still have alternative answers. Then with each step along the wrong road it becomes increasingly difficult for them to admit that they are on the wrong road.

There is something in the ether that I picked up on and I confirmed it with a search in google using the words “was jesus a pow”.  It was a shot that came up with possibilities that fit.  Pow for pow-wow and pow for pow’r.  Another one was a youtube video from a band Pow woW , with a song “Jesus”.

I chose the link for Angelina Jolie directing a movie based on the life of POW survivor Louis Zamparini.  It’s basd on a book “Unbroken”, by Lauren Hillenbrand.  From what I gleaned of the history available on the internet about him, he started out as a troubled kid (smoker at 5 years old, school bully by elementary and menace to society by high-school.)  His saving grace was his talent for running which qualified him to be invited to train for the 1936 Olympics.  When WWII broke out he fought in the war and ended up as a POW when his plane crashed in the Pacific Ocean and he and his two other crews were taken by the Japanese soldiers.

What initially motivated my search was my curiosity for characteristics of survivors of prison camps.  There has been so many war movies made and that continue to be made for many reasons including, “we” as a race continue to make war.  I read the book “Man’s Search For Meaning” by Viktor Frankl of his account as a prisoner in the concentration camps during WWII.  As a psychiatrist his perspective was important to me, because I wonder myself what I would be capable of doing to survive severe conditions in cramped and limited conditions; and equally curious to me, is what are others capable of doing to save their own skin.  What is the common thread of like people?  (Also, I’m curious about group dynamics in stressful conditions.)  On a day to day basis, there are personalities with whom I have an affinity for, while there are those I prefer to avoid.  My resistance to the latter makes me more curious about me.  What makes me feel that way?  What can I change to improve the situation?

Racing towards the sunset at middle age I do ponder more seriously and frequently the meaning of it all.  What is in “Original Sin” that I want to explore through a play?  Our origins, our path, our destiny, and how do we get there?  As companions in life we have our choices of with whom we want to travel with.  Stressful conditions bring out the best and worst in people.  I want to see what stuff, people I work and hang-with, are made of.  To me, the answer is not as simple as “Survival of the Fittest”.  There are people who’ve gone down, sacrificing themselves for the better of humanity.  Just think of the saints and martyrs (who didn’t think of themselves as such, but the outcome of history has earned them that title):  MLK Jr.,  Gandhi. Mother Theresa.

Specific to Frankl and Zamparini, their separate stories, with its similar conditions, show forbearance with meaning.  They are survivors of the worst conditions we can imagine in our comfortable lives, but beyond survival what did they get from the experience?  What did they give back during those years of suffering and/or afterwards?

For Frankl, the experience untombed this perspective,

That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. And as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, supporting each other time and again, dragging one another up and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky, where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morning was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds. But my mind clung to my wife’s image, imagining it with an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her look was then more luminous than the sun which was beginning to rise.

A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth — that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way — an honorable way — in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, “The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.”

In front of me a man stumbled and those following him fell on top of him. The guard rushed over and used his whip on them all. Thus my thoughts were interrupted for a few minutes. But soon my soul found its way back from the prisoner’s existence to another world, and I resumed talk with my loved one: I asked her questions, and she answered; she questioned me in return, and I answered.

As a summary, he expressed in the preface to the 1992 edition of the book:

 ‘I had wanted simply to convey to the reader by way of a concrete example that life holds a potential meaning under any conditions, even the most miserable ones… I therefore felt responsible for writing down what I had gone through, for I thought it might be helpful to people who are prone to despair” – Preface by the author to “Man’s Search for Meaning”, by Viktor Frankl.

As for Zamparini, upon his rescue from the camp, he was showered with the accolades of a hero.  He ran with the torch for the Olympics in Los Angeles (1984), Atlanta (1996) and Nagano (1998).   At Nagano, the route passed many of the concentration camps where he had been imprisoned.

A Houston Chronicler sports writer called it “the very best thing I saw on sports television, period, in 1998.” The press universally praised the 35-minute piece, which later won an Emmy – Source USC News by Elizabeth Segal

The transformative experience of the imprisonment was not immediate for Zamparini.  He suffered from the effects of what is now commonly called Posttraumatic stress disorder.  He became an alcoholic and was at the point when his wife threatened with divorce before the cycle of his experience started to turn to complete the circle.  It was his wife who initiated the conversion after her own conversion to Christianity.

Instead of divorce, his wife turned the other cheek and found solace in the sermons of a preacher named Billy Graham. She tried to get her husband to convert too. At first, he was resistant. “I hated all that holy roller stuff,” he says disdainfully. When Zamperini finally went to a meeting, he was surprised to find Graham “so handsome and clean-cut, not one of those wheezer types.”

During that sermon, Zamperini had an epiphany. “I momentarily flashed to the life raft in the Pacific, the moment when I prayed to God that if He spared my life, that I’d dedicate it to service and prayer – you know all those promises you make when you’re in a jam,” Zamperini says. “I realized then that I’d turned my back on my promises and on God. And when I got off my knees that day in the tent, I knew I would be through with drinking, smoking and revenge fantasies. I haven’t had a nightmare since.”

Inspired by Graham and the Bible, Zamperini toured as a public speaker, channeling his energies into messages of forgiveness. He revisited Japan in 1950, and before large forums of Japanese civilians (as well as the Tokyo Trojan Club), he spread the gospel. – Source USC News by Elizabeth Segal

What I’m learning from absorbing these two stories is there is a closure to their experience.  It was not just a matter of getting through it, it was to put a meaning to it and they felt it was worthy to share their own epiphanies with the rest of us.  They are teaching us how to survive, not just under extreme conditions, but in our day-to-day struggles with our own selves; that conscience that leads us to know what to do and what to say in situations that challenge us to put up our guards rather than open our hearts.

I feel I haven’t lived enough to be worthy of telling everything I want to show in a play.

Sometimes I just tell myself – Oh heck, just get on with it.  Get on with life and forget about your conscience.  (I jest!)

by Analyn Revilla

A friend told me he’s having a hard time finishing his first book.  My comment was, “because your life is not yet finished.”  He paused.  He neither agreed nor disagreed.  He explained he didn’t want the story to end yet, because he wants to have a few sequels after the first.  I started to wonder why my first play is not yet finished done, after the multiple drafts I’ve written.  I’ve actually stopped writing for six months now; but I’m always doing research.  (And I’m laughing at myself, because research can go on for a very long time, and it’s a bad excuse.)  Today as I ponder seriously as to why the play is not done, I came up with an apt analogy.  It is not that my life is not over, it is  that “The End” is like the endless carousel of thoughts going through my mind.  The possibilities of the ending is infinite, because like a chess game each move introduces a new set of permutations.

Eventually however, probabilities will limit the possibilities.  After the players of the game have made their choices for each move, the ending does become inevitable, and its ending is also predictable.  So in writing, the only way to get to the end is to write.  As a writer makes choices as to what the characters say and what actions they do, the story unfolds.  Figuratively and literally the miracle of creation unfolds and the story writes itself – if only the writer allows the characters to act out and speak out.  I haven’t been letting my characters play at all, and so my play is not finished.  I’m in the throes of the second act which in chess is the middle game.  The middle game is my weakness.  There’s a lot of tension and I’m horrible dealing with tensions.  I like things to be neat and orderly – because it’s easier that way, but this is not life, and this is not story.  Life Story is messy messy messy.

When I have a situation that is full of possibilities because there’s a lot of tension then I have a tendency to finish the scene prematurely.  In chess terms, I make a stupid move and suddenly I’m in check mate or needing to dig myself out of a hole.  Writing about this now, I can understand how experienced writers have advised me put the play out there – have a reading.  As seasoned writers, they’ve played this game many times before, and they see my dilemma.  They know the burden of carrying the decision of when it is done.  It just takes practice to let go, perhaps.  (That was conjecture on my part.)  I’m perhaps afraid to let go because of the “unknown”.   Will others think it’s boring, stupid, or crap?  Oh well, I won’t know unless I try.  For one thing… don’t give up.

In chess games a game clock is used.  It has two face clocks with buttons to stop one while starting the other.  This enables the players to move in turn without delaying the game.  Perhaps if I used a clock like this in writing I can keep the dialogue and action going.  It’d be a fun exercise to try, and see what writing comes out of it.  Game on.  Write already!

by Analyn Revilla

There are those days when the only motivation I can muster is to reach for the pint of Haagen-Daz ice cream, then spoonful after spoonful give my spirit some reprieve and consolation.  Each mouthful is a salve of sugar and fat in cold creaminess.  It’s a tangible fantasy that yields measurable value compared to buying a lotto ticket.  These two questions form the yin-yang in my mind:  Am I going to win the lottery tonight? Is there a God?

I’m down to the last half pint of the vanilla flavored ice cream, and yet I’m not feeling any better.  Short of psychedelic medication, I’ve tried meditating, but my mind constantly drifts to the ice cream.  I “look” at the third eye, the midpoint between my eyebrows and an inch above the midpoint.  I feel cross-eyed and a mild dizziness breaks out.  The anxiety is worse than waiting at the doctor’s office for the appointment schedule 45 minutes ago, and you got there early to find cheap parking.  The ice cream beckons.  I’m coming my friend.

(This is a rant!  It’s not fair of me to hold you up, like this, you my unsuspecting audience.  But didn’t my ice cream dreams give you a hint.  Duck!  Hide!  A baleful of self-flagellation is coming your way!)

Whoa Nelly…

You’ve been taking life too damn seriously.  When that happens then everything grinds to a halt beginning with the joie de vivre taking the backdoor exit; the cat gives me that look – like she couldn’t give a fig about my mopin’ around; and I have to work and write a blog too.

It’s a tightrope act to balance between the ennui of the abundant modern industrial life and giving meaning to life.  I’ve lately been obsessed with songs that have the word “Hole” in the title.  Here’s my list:

• Police – “Hole in My Life”
• Alice in Chains – “Down in a Hole”
• Beatles – “Fixing a Hole”
• Soundgarden –  “Black Hole Sun”
• Black Sabbath – “Hole in the Sky”

I think all these songs allude to that thing amiss in our lives.  The hole is real.  But I’ve been trying too hard to get in and out through to the other side.  Will there be a revelation (– something/anything) after the show?

I dive back into my books, a collection of metaphysical, philosophies and practices by some of the great thinkers and doers:  Paramahansa Yogananda, Edgar Cayce, Rilke, Krishnamurti, Gandhi, Martin Luther King. Jr., and a collection of skits/shows by Bill Hicks “Love All The People”.  This search for truth and meaning is not an easy path.  But we go on.  And once in a while we do hit rock bottom, like I’m down to a thin film of creamy vanilla.  I pass the carton for the dog to lick clean.  Pets.  They can take you or leave you regardless of your mood, because they know instinctively that you have unconditional love for them.

Love is not a theory.  It is a practice and an experience.  I can repeat the words love and forgiveness till I’m blue in the face, but until I actually feel it then it means nothing.  Love is like butter.  It makes everything taste better, even the bitter pill of life we swallow everyday. This poem about work from “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran expresses best what I’m feeling.

 And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart,
even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection,
even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy,
even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead
are standing about you and watching.

Stanza 6

Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man’s ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

Stanza 8

So how does it end?  Is the character transformed?  Does every story have to have a transformation? Or do we just recycle our energy into the universe and hope, perhaps for a reincarnation in a better life.  If karma rules then grace trumps it.  We all have it – the capacity for grace.  At every turn there’s a choice to be one or to be separate.  (I can’t help but think of the lyrics and melody of “A Day in the Life” by the Beatles.)

Thank you for the opportunity to share with you.

by Analyn Revilla

The first big choice to make today was either to go to practice yoga or do “other things” before I go to work.  The “other things” is a list of activities that aren’t part of my weekday routine.  These are “other” fun things that feed my soul:  read, write, play music, bake a pie, meditate and take the dog for a long walk.  I skipped the yoga class.  Later, when I was wiping away the flour dust and blueberry stains from the kitchen counter I smiled, because I recognized that I made the right choice.

 That feeling of knowing is intuition.  I can habitually and easily destroy this gift of intuition when I’m way too much in my head calculating the minutes and hours of the day, dividing the day with allocations of how much time I can spend on the to do list.  I’ve recognized that it can be a form obsessive compulsive disease to always be on top of my to-do list (checking it and checking it twice and checking it some more not just to put check marks and cross marks, but ensuring I’ve got everything in the list.) 

This is not my natural way, by the way.  I’m not a list person, nor am I the person to print the directions from Mapquest.  I’m more the person to get an overview of the direction and area that I’m supposed to be at, then I’ll use my nose to find the spot.  Indeed, I’m hardly on time, and exact in getting to my destination, because I end up discovering different roads and stopping to ask people for directions before I find my spot.  If you’re not that kind of a traveler then you wouldn’t want to be travelling with me.

 I know I can be more balanced if I was more organized and orderly, but I like the practice of using my sense of direction and intuition to guide me.  I attribute many of my wonderful experiences in life to my “adventurous” and devil-may-care approach to certain things.  It’s not uncommon that the “unlikely” and “illogical” choice is the right choice on many occasions in my life so far.

 But I agonize over making decisions and choices.  When I went for my computer science degree there was a point when I had to specialize.  I would guess that 60% of the class chose the option that would guarantee the best probability of getting employed upon graduation; the other 35% chose their area that was best suited for their interest and aptitude while the remaining 5% (which I’m part of) did not really choose an option.  But I did make a logical choice this way.  My option was “Decision Systems”.  It was about linear programming, and I thought “Ok, this is the one for me, because this will give the tools I need to make better decisions in life.”  The last laugh was on me, because the curriculum was heavy on statistics and linear programming and calculations, which is opposite to my nature.  

But it was possibly what I needed, because my computer programming career provided me with the means to have shelter and food, plus other amenities.  But having “blueberry pie” moments is equally necessary to fulfill my soulful needs, and gave me the sustenance to hope and dream as we all do during the festive holiday season with its lights, decorations, music and all-around cheer.  

Most of the year and throughout the days I live in the practical  world to survive; and rarely heed the small voice that asks to be heard.  As I read in one of my treasure trove books, “what good is a voice if no one is listening to it?”  It is only during this season that I relax a little more to restore a balance of slowing down and listening.  So now I’m open to giving more consideration to that little voice that pipes up, “Hey, let’s make blueberry pie, and forget about rushing off to the studio and feeling great after a good sweat.”

 Being in the midst of the end-of-the-year holidays, it is the period of observing traditions of rites and rituals that convey significances of the passing of time.  The observance of these rituals can be a mixture of being automatic and heart-felt, or one or the other.  As a child, my memories of Christmas were the rites of getting a tree, decorating it, and afterwards watching with wonder the flicker of lights in different colors.  It was this precious wonder that I want to preserve for all my Christmases.  The wonder is a knowing that All Is Good.  It is the intuitive knowing hope lives.  And choosing to be open to possibilities rather than calculating probabilities, which is the more expansive experience that deepens our soulfulness.

 by Analyn Revilla

I think a lot of stories reflect the subtext of the hero’s need to belong. It begins as a want for something outside of herself that she believes would make her be acceptable, loveable and eligible to belong to a group/family.  A simple idea of a shampoo commercial that depicts a pretty woman with gorgeous hair, and how suddenly this product makes her attractive to the world around her and now she belongs to the ideal of beautiful. 

I didn’t know until I read the analyses by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes of the fairytale “The Ugly Duckling” (written by Hans Christian Andersen) that this story holds deeply textured meanings in terms of Jungian psychoanalysis. The chapter “Finding One’s Pack:  Belonging as Blessing” in her book, “Women Who Run With the Wolves”, is devoted to describing the movement of characters through the different archetypes of:  the Innocent; the Orphan, the Martyr; the Wanderer, the Warrior and the Magician.  (She does not specifically use the terminology listed, but the concept is there.) 

 A common thread that runs through each stage of the journey as the Ugly Duckling shifts from one stage to the next stage is his desire to belong and his never-ending search for this sense of belonging (which is essentially home.)   Dr. Estes awakens the reader to the significance of the Ugly Duckling’s movement from the river’s nest to the marsh, the farm, and finally the lake.  In each locale he meets with groups with which he tries to fit in; or who tries to make him fit in; but inevitably he needs to continue his quest because the “shoes never quite fit in” for the hero.  This need to never give up is attributable to the call of the wild.

 “The duckling of the story is symbolic of the wild nature, which, when pressed into circumstances of little nurture, instinctively strives to continue no matter what.  The wild nature instinctively holds on and holds outs, sometimes with style, other times with little grace, but nevertheless.  And thank goodness for that.  For the wildish woman, duration is one of her greatest strengths.” – from “Women Who Run With the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I work in a corporate environment where, as any large body of people, change is slow to happen; and communication, though stressed to be of high importance, can be challenging because of the large mix of individuals needing to work together for a common purpose.  One method of communication within our group are forms.  There are specific templates for something that needs to communicate something specific.

 There is a new form called “Project Commitment Form” that needs to be filled out and reviewed to get it to a stage of getting approval for funding of projects.  This form begins with a statement that defines the “Business Problem”.  When I met with the first reviewer, she started with “you did a marvelous job, but…”  Then she continued to say, “I’ve never had to fill out one of these forms, but…”  At the end of the meeting I absorbed the suggestions and incorporated most of the changes, but hung on, at least, to my version of the “Business Problem”.

After the meeting and sending out polite emails I went home, but something didn’t sit right in my belly.  What am I hanging on to that does not belong to me anymore I asked myself.  To say the mantra “Let it go” repeatedly was pointless unless I meant it.  At the end of the day, I said to myself, I’m just trying to conform, and get the job done with some personal integrity left.  That was the kicker for me – I was attached to the final result.  I now see that the document shows responsibility and accountability for approving a project for funding in a language and format that is understood from their perspective and not mine.  I’m writing for the audience and not me.  The sense of belonging is defined in terms of what they need, and not my own.

 I began to unwind the tight ball of confusion by reading “The Ugly Duckling”, and the wisdom unbound by Dr. Estes analyses brought the light to eyes.  I had been trying to “fit in” so hard at work to the best that I can; and even then there’s always room for improvement as is often conveyed through the annual performance review.  Isn’t there just a point in time, during your employment years with a company where you just fit in? or does the criteria change with each change of leadership, or change in what’s new and trendy for “process” and “methodology”, including (even) vocabulary?

 “The other important aspect of the story is that when an individual’s particular kind of soulfulness, which is both an instinctual and spiritual identity, is surrounded by psychic acknowledgment and acceptance, that person feel life and power as never before.  Ascertaining one’s own psychic family brings a person vitality and belongingness.”  –  from “Women Who Run With the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

 After reading her analysis of the fairytale using Jungian psychoanalysis I felt enlightened and this gave me so much joy.

 The next day I IM’ed a friend at work, “I’m so happy this morning I don’t know why.”  The response was, “Do you need a why?”

 I did know the source of the joyful feeling.  It was that I truly let go of the result, and it came about by my internal inquiry combined with a serendipitous opening to a page in the book about The Ugly Duckling.  (I found the book in a thrift store at Lake Elsinore during the weekend.  The previous owner had written the word “= Grace” after “Contacting the Power of the Wild Woman.”)

I can define my belongingness in my own terms as acknowledging my boundaries.  There is a real and imaginary line between what I take home with me and what I leave at work.  The integrity asked of me and what I ask of myself has been fulfilled in that I created something that I share with a community; and it does not belong to me anymore.  At the end of the day I go home to my family, and when the family retires to bed, and turns out the light then the dog is sure to follow.  She imposes her weight against me like a falling sack of potatoes, telling me “I belong here with you.”  It is a wonder to behold the irony of the extraordinary in the most ordinary of our daily routine – to lie down and rest and accept one’s truth.

I can’t put it more eloquently than Estes:

“So that is the final work of the exile who finds her own:  to not only accepts one’s own individuality, one’s specific identity as a certain kind of person, but also to accept one’s beauty… the shape of one’s soul and the fact that living close to that wild creature transforms us and all that it touches.” – from “Women Who Run With the Wolves”.

by Analyn Revilla

I had driven around and stopped at four other pawn shops around New Orleans, before I found “the guitar”.  It had been sitting in a darkened room of the pawn shop next to a small food stand.  It was, in fact, the food stand that I used as my marker to locate the shop, based on directions from a local.

“the guitar”, covered in dust, was hidden behind other abandoned guitars, but at least it stood upright, and not on its back.  Any weight on it could’ve broken the neck or cracked its body.  The headstock was chipped, the back was falling off and it couldn’t hold the tuning, because the tuning pegs were not its original stock and the strings were gritty with dust and grease.

I looked down the neck of the guitar and did not see any serious bends.  Plus it was really too dark in the shop to study that kind of detail any closer.  I tried to tune the guitar and play a chord.  Imagine plucking a note from an electric guitar plugged to an amp in a large and empty stadium.  Hear the note.  It is true and just keeps on vibrating.  Its call brings your soul to its knees.  I was unnerved by the tone of this old soul.

“How much do you want for this?” I asked the owner.  I got the answer I expected.  Something along the lines that it’s a vintage guitar, and it’s a bargain for $125.  It comes with its own gig bag.  The guitar was worth something as it was an Alvarez and it was fabricated in Japan.  It was an old soul with a worn body.  Its back was falling out and I saw there was some damage to the heel too.  I liked the scorpion sticker on the front, and ghs guitar boomer sticker at the back.

“Ok, I’ll take it.”  My answer, without its haggling down words, made the man pause and probably wonder if he’s really given away a gem.  The gig bag was in better shape than the guitar.

After returning to LA, and having paid an extra $100 for the extra carriage of the guitar I was the owner of a vintage guitar that couldn’t be played.  You can tune it, but it begins to lose its tuning before you can finish a song.  I took it around to a few shops to get an idea of the cost of fixing it, but the answers I got weren’t too promising.  I took it on a trip to Vancouver.  I always need the companionship of a guitar when I’m away from home.  The guy at Bonerattle Music store offered to at least glue the back and change the strings.  I didn’t mind playing an out of tune guitar, as I just needed to hold it.  I could still play a melody on one string; and practice anything with simple creativity.  The guy was surprised by its sound.  “Its got great tone.”  “I know,” I told him, “that’s why I got it and I wanted to save it.”

Then the guitar sat on a gig stand around my apartment unfixed and played not often.  It was like grandpa sitting in his rocking chair, waiting for something, that I wish I knew what for.  Then one day, I found out there was a hobbyist luthier working in the office.  His day job is a technical engineer.  His office is adorned with 3 guitars and a bass he built.  All of these babies were beautiful.  His favorite is a retro-green Strat body with pink knobs.  I told him about my guitar, and he said he’d like to work on it.  Wide-eyed, I said, “Really?”

That was almost a year ago that we had that conversation.  Yesterday morning he handed me the fixed grande dame of the Mississippi.  I cradled it, and couldn’t resist strumming a few favorite chords.   In his words he said it’s the only guitar  he’s worked on that’s “live”.  Then he quickly changed his mind and said, “it is one of two… ”  He figured that “the guitar” has been played a lot by the look of the wear on the fingerboard.  The wear on the headstock looks like the guitar had been pulled out of gig bags often, the kind of guitar you just reach for.  “Imagine,” I said, “Can you imagine the hands that’s touched this guitar.”  “I know,” he enthused.  Our minds raced with stories of its own making.

Last night, while Bruno watched the news, I sat holding the guitar and warming up my fingers and noodling quietly.  At times I would stop and apologize for getting carried away.  He gently told me, it’s okay.  He liked hearing me play.  “I don’t play,” I said.  This morning, after he left for work, I picked up the guitar again.  I started gingerly as my fingers hadn’t played very much lately.  I put the metronome at a slow beat of 40.  The electronic tick tock focused my attention.  After a few minutes of that I moved to chords, then playing songs.  I was enamored with the sound.  This guitar likes to be played loud.  Its tone was so grand and deep – resonating tones and semitones like an aria.  By the time I became I aware of time it was 8:44.  I still hadn’t walked the dog, and I’m supposed to be at work soon.

I laughed at an old reminder a guitar teacher used to tell me.  “Play louder”.  This was the first and only guitar I’ve played which I could play loud.  I found my voice with this guitar.  I dressed for work, happily thinking about an idea – when one day, St. Peter, at the Gate, asks me to play a song to let me pass through into heaven I would have a song to play and I would play it loud enough.

by Analyn Revilla

I like dreaming – and I remember my dreams vividly, and enjoy analyzing and talking about them.  It could be a narcissist quirk, or I’m just hoping to unearth some answers to the eternal question, ‘what’s wrong with me?!’  So I’ve been reading up on dream interpretation.  I learned that C.G. Jung and Freud differed on the subject of dream interpretation and techniques.  Freud claims that dreams are rooted in sexual desires and repressions; while Jung sought to explain themes and characters in dreams as archetypes rooted in mythology.

“The Miss Julie Dream Project” straddles the real and surreal world of which is indeed like lucid dreaming.

On opening night, Mina, an actress who plays the classic heroine of Miss Julie, faces the heroine in the surreal world.  Miss Julie refuses to surrender to her written fate.  Her rebellion leads to a missing actress while her ensemble of actors and a director fumble through a performance without the lead character.  The dream weaves in and out of  the dream world and the non-dream world.   The actors playing as actors travel through a worm hole subjected to immense gravitational forces that collapses and expands bodies and minds as its pulled and pushed between two parallel worlds.

It’s a fresh theme that the Fell Swoop Playwrights developed based on August Strindberg’s plays “Miss Julie” and “The Dream Project”.  How daunting it must be for 9 playwrights to collaborate on writing one piece about two different plays.  I’m not a numbers person, and so 9-1-2 is already a lot of numbers in one sentence.  But it really worked with “The Miss Julie Dream Project”.

I watched the play at the Three Clubs theatre.  We were a tad late (sorry…), so I missed the first 2 minutes.  Miss Julie and Mina were already arguing.  Walking into the show late then trying to figure out what I had missed was doubly challenging.  The extra challenge after “I got it” was realizing that I’ve walked into Mina’s dream.  Miss Julie does not want to die again like she does every night of the performance.

In the midst of their conversation, the troupe enters with the director shouting “directions” of course.  The action moves quickly from “Where’s Mina?” to “Oh, they’re here” – the audience… “What do we do?”  It’s a quick but very subtle movement from dream to reality and then back to dream when Mina tries to tell them “I’m here”, but she’s trapped with Miss Julie who won’t allow her to return to the stage of reality.

The interplay of the characters moving from real to surreal is like seagulls beating their wings to catch the air current that allows them to soar and float effortlessly.

What does Miss Julie want, if she’s refusing to fulfill her playwright’s designed demise?  She wants to feel alive, and what could be more alive than having an affair?  Like any willful heroine she gets what she wants, but at what cost?  Who’s going to have the baby and in which life will the baby be born?  You know all these questions aren’t going to be answered in the dream.  The answers only come to blossom after the images and words have stewed in your subconscious for several days.  And this is what has happened to me.  It’s Wednesday, the fifth day, after seeing the play.  Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate what’s happened until after its taken effect – kind of like the absorption time needed to learn a new skill.

“The Miss Julie Dream Project” is a fun brain teaser.  There are 3 shows left:  Thursday, June 20^th; Saturday, June 22^nd; Wednesday June 26^th at Three Clubs.