Hibernating

When I am not traveling, I am writing at Only the Moment

I'll be back here in a few months. I can feel it.

Love,

Jennifer

Imaginary Parallels

"Three of the most significant imaginary lines running across the surface of the earth are the equator, the Tropic of Cancer, and the Tropic of Capricorn"

I have been back from Ecuador for 2 months now, which marks 9 months since my "dramatic adventure" began. In that time, I have crossed lines that divide countries, climates, and personal thresholds--all of which are technically imaginary but have changed me so significantly over this time that I must believe they are real in a way beyond what can be mapped or expressed.

I was a kind of virgin when i began this journey-- a mere fragment of an infinite pilgrimage in which my entire life is but a fragment-- I was timid and hesitant to follow impulse, to follow the spark of instantaneous knowing. I immediately knew DAT was a significant parallel. It was love at first sight. But not to the rational, protective people in my life: they cautioned me against this kind of love. "It isn't real," some would say, "You shouldn't have to raise money to act." But for me, money wasn't part of the equation: experience was. Giving, courageous freedom, and magnetic law were too. I have made rational choices in my life that turned out to be more imaginary--more based on hypothesis than the solid foundaton of instinctual knowing. That is, I have engaged in relationships and projects whose value eventually dissolved because we shared no common denominator, no creative potential; we never added up to a greater reality, relationship, or integer. Our truth was as imaginary as zero. And so, logic told me that the sensual "imaginary" love that I was so cautioned against was just as worthy of surrender and exploration as the sensible failures. Besides, instinct felt true--perhaps more substantial than traditional processes of problem-solving. My choices might not create a linear path; they might even spiral me back to the beginning, but where is the beginning exactly? Zero might be the kind of love worth living for, so I looked at a map of my heart and erased a few of the international borders.

When I realized these lines were imaginary, I realized so were the rules. I don't have to erase--I need to draw, write, create. My choices are a complex proof that is the root of my rootless life--one long line of a million Emersonian "zig-zags," which straightens only at a distance. My route is the only one I follow--but I pay attention to those whose paths I merge with and intersect. They are part of my road-trip too. And so I hitched a ride with DAT and we made love. I learned to fundraise, organize, and rally people for a cause: for art, for drama, and for adventure! We got excited and we got sick. We vomited and swam with sharks. We shelled delicate pods to collect the tiny seeds of native island trees--even if it meant only one we planted would survive into adulthood. We drudged up buckets of swamp water to build a community center that may never be used. I took a rusty nail in the leg for love and loved it. But these experiences dissolve on the Big Chart of which my entire life is a dot. But I saw my own potential in this union, in a blind leap of faith into love and adventure. I guessed and checked. And the answer was better than I imagined.

I realized that of the many friends and family and strangers part of my trajectory, some eventually converge again in place (y) and time (x). No matter how parallel Cancers and Capricorns may seem, everyone comes and goes in his or her unruly way. . . some keep going, and some come again. Some never come. And I can't even imagine who they are. It's too bittersweet. There are too many wonderful affairs to be found in this world and in this lifetime--too many whys to cross my axes. I am too small and weak to contain the people who have shared their space and time with me in these 9 months, nevermind those who share the greater graph, never mind those who helped create the giant new life inside me. I feel pregnant with the world, with love, with the desire for more, and yet I am content with and inspired by what I have. It's real--I feel it kicking ... like Ecuadorian futbol cheers.

I did not expect the affair with DAT to last so long, but I have grown exponentially as a result of that first impulse--of that seemingly brief encounter. I still have dreams and passions; they are the invisible (not imaginary) answers that catalyze my impulses. This close the dots may not make sense, but they are the only logic I follow. I connect the impulses to make my map. They are as steep and jagged and rich as the ridges of the Andes. Beneath the belt of the Earth is a force that pulses in my fingertips, shaking the "line" I draw. In South America or North, I am connected to it's invisible drum. Something is born in August, a new inspiration, a new perspective, a door to more impulses, lines, and nonsensical numerical combinations.

Every so many months, I step back into space and look at the picture; I try to calculate my route in miles and make sense of my story with words, and it does not seem real. My great saunter has led me to meet and diverge from other people's paths. They are experiences I desire to hoard but am happy to release. Beauty is too infinite for our frames to contain. Joy and pain are what life feels like confined behind the border that divides our bodies from infinite atmosphere. They are what it feels like to look across the imaginary canyon and touch the vast uncharted land on the other side. Like moving between countries, perhaps it's merely a technical difference: no three-hour queue to gain permission to cross, no cool tortoise stamp, no sapling seed to put in my invisible passport. Perhaps crossing the line is simply a matter of temperature change. Or perhaps crossing. Perhaps the border merely marks the entrance to tropical Paradise, where summer is as endless as this one... but I am not quite ready to find out yet. For now I am too happy at the edge, where the hot and cold of the sea and the mountains remind me I am lucky to be making a map at all, that I am capable of having hypothetical babies.

None of our lives is straight. I cannot believe the Equator--imaginary as it is-- is a flatline. I am not even sure that it is parallel. We are a grid of seismographs that sometimes ever so briefly align. It's a baby that screams and cries and unabashedly poops and cooes and scratches. And the etch-a-sketch, the passport is perfect. Would you like to see mine? Stamp it together for a while? May I see yours before the world moves us again?

The Showcase

Hecho en Ecuador
July 16, 17, 18, & 19 2009
New York City

Get your tickets HERE!

It's finally here: the culmination of this entire Adventure which began back at that fateful audition in November last year. It screeched and cried without language through the new year, and learned to speak and walk by March and by April, showed signs of clear adulthood. Like a firefly, this longer-than usual theatre project is approaching evening, but not yet--for now the star is still hot as noon! Get a day pass and see us all explode, the supernova of our brief life!

If you don't want a day pass--which I highly recommend because all the shows are great and only 20 mins each!-- the times you can see our group's show are:

Thurs 7/16 (preview) 5-6 pm Richmond Shepard Theatre

Friday 7/17 530-630 pm @ Richmond Shepard Theatre

Sat 7/18 8-1030 pm @ Richmond Shepard Theatre

Sun 7/19 3-4 pm @ Teatro IATI and
5-7 pm @ Richmond Shepard Theatre

Join me in the birth and death--the transformation and transcendence of this extended journey's climax.


THE INSPIRATION:

Postcards From Nuevo New York

. . memory, that ephemeral mist in which recollections dissipate, change, and blend together; at the end of our days it turns out that we have lived only what we can evoke.
-Isabelle Allende

Dear Ecuador,

In a way, you've freed me as you slowly metamorphose into a cell in Memory's rear wing. And as much as I lament that you are no longer free in the present, I take pleasure in the life I can draw from you-- in new moments. Each experience slips into the past and onto a spice rack, which I use in new recipes as I continue to live and eat. I am grateful for the ability to let go of each one and discover them in newer ways yet unknown. I am grateful because though I grow stronger from letting things go, Memory allows us to secretly keep them... Ironically, to truly be free, I must be willing to forget--as our frail minds often do with age. I am not willing. Could I ever endure that kind of letting go--as a Buddhist surrenders desire? I think I have surrendered enough to Memory. And now, I surrender to New York . . . so that you might live a little longer: so that I can live now with all the ingredients to eat for a lifetime, Ecuadorian style when I choose . . .

Side note to the gods: when I die, please, bury me with pictures and chocolate!

xx Jennifer xx

Dear New York,

At a distance you prod me. You inspire me. I felt this always from Brooklyn Bridge or from the Promenade, but living in Astoria, I now realize I live in a magnificent place with a stunning panorama, from which I can absorb your across-the-water ecstasy: Astoria Park--and without the expense and traffic of Brooklyn Heights. Last week I trespassed across the Triborough Bridge (now RFK), a desolate, magnificent stretch of steel leading me along a Via Sacra to a North American Rome. I saw Twelfth Night in the park the next day; watching Shakespeare always "pricks the sides of my intent". . . Oh if only there were a bridge to my destiny that I could follow. Prick me, prod me; help me see through the clouds! Show me how to build a bridge . . .

xo J

PS The moon is full again tonight--first time since Mindo. The Sacagawean dollar rose-- by perceptible degrees as we rehearsed for the Ecuador Showcase on Kathleen's rooftop overlooking the ESB. . . truly, truly lucky to be alive and to share the moon --and life-- with ye.


Dear Jennifer,

I am undgergoing a radical perspective shift. I'm filled with a renewed sense of wonder since returning from Ecuador and resisting the idea of being caged in New York again. I'm allowing it to catch me now . . . no ants in my pants to leave. Fine. Take, me. I'll sit for a bit. Isn't that why I came here? Actually, I am free. I'm free to decide how to see it. I'm free to change my perspective. The bridges help me see that, and it is my mission to follow them all. They're fixed but full of exit energy . . . these iron trajectories inspire me. They inspire me as much as the trees do, and I've always been drawn to them. I am finally beginning to fulfill a long-standing promise to this place: "I am going to walk all over your streets and bridges. I am going to dance the hell out of you and find passion to live by . . . passion that will continue to inspire and teach and bring opportunities to me--the adventures that are all around and waiting to be made." To promise, you have to stand still, or you can't even take yourself seriously. I am one of the most uncommitted and indecisive people I know. But it feels good to make a choice--for a little bit. Anyway, it's not like I can't dance in one spot; I came back from hot South American winter into a hot North American summer; there is pleasure in the city too! I'm sideways and wearing an old pair of shoes like a new hat. Emerson would be proud. You should be too.

Love,

Yourself

... and Love Yourself!

Postcard to Bumble and Bumble

Bumble and Bumble
415 W 13th St
New York, NY 10014
USA

Dear Kristin, Lauren, and Talented Artists,

Did you think that after your creative work shaping, styling and nourishing my hair that I would thank you for your support for helping me get to Ecuador by doing THIS to my hair????? It's almost commedia. At least you'd be proud that I didn't wash my hair for days (if not weeks) while abroad. Well, even if you aren't inspired by this lovely trend, rest assured I am no longer sporting this look on the streets of NY. Thank you for helping me repair the damages incurred by the Equatorial sun and shampoo . . . I can't promise it won't happen again!

xo Jennifer

Postcard to My Followers around the World

El Mundo
London, Canada, Japan, Australia, Europe--from the Equator to the Meridian
Earth, Milky Way, Infinity

Dear Lovers and Fellows in Wanderlust,

Let's take a moment to say--nothing, but feel what we feel . . .

"Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say as much". I have learned: be open, obey passion, hear instinct, love your body, respect the Earth, connect with each other, be grateful each second. The same power of standing above the laguna in Quilotoa exists in a production of Titus Andronicus on the Globe stage in London, in a sudden kiss, in the brown ale of a Richmond pub on the Thames, in the jubilee dancing to Sam Cooke's soul. Inspiration comes in many forms--passion? inspiration? magnetism? Know it when you feel it. Take it, use it, love like it. Love is all that matters. It comes in many forms. Know it when you feel it. Take it, use it, follow it.

Namaste,

One with Poor Hands and Rich Eyes, and a Scarlet Heart

Postcard to My Followers in NY

"Home"
Astoria, Brooklyn, Manhattan
New York, New York
USA

Dear Ye, with the hum of the city under your skin,

This place gets under your skin too. I don't want to come back. No offense, but I have been writing, teaching, and acting without a second thought for anything else. I've been doing everything I love --something you enable but somehow don't allow me to do. . . I'm talking to you, NY. But to my compadres within your walls, I send you a snapshot of the buildings unlike ours. This "graffiti" is how the country campaigns for the candidates at large. A particular village supports a particular man, who has a number and then slogans are painted on the sides of their houses nestled in sloping mountain-sides. Occasionally a fedora and red cloak disappear into the green folds of earth. Panoramas are peopled and unpeopled. Who is voting, I wonder? I am hypnotized and my mouth is agape, slowly filling with the mud of fertile Andean fields.

With thanks and inspiration,

Jennifer