"FROLIC!!"

Actor.... Or Carnie?

THere is a rush like none other when you don’t know what is going to happen-- which happens often as a performer. When you enter a small room, and people behind a desk say, “Now, frolic.” You laugh because it seems so strange…  But then, you do. And you laugh to yourself all the while. My energy booms in my chest, and my heart palpitates. And feet begin to twirl and point. I can barely speak for all the stored breath that wants to escape.  Fueling the courage it takes to begin, surging, it plows you forwards. And I frolicked. I danced. Is there a right way to frolic? A frolic skill set? I showed my bloomers and I made fun of them ripping when I cart-wheeled. They laughed, and blushed, and disappeared from my mind for a moment.

It was me and silliness, “I am Heather Rush!” Like a toddler in a family talent show, “Look what I can do!” Lunging and quipping… flinging shoes off with reckless direction. I couldn’t tell if my provided “love interest” was smitten or shocked as I flitted, he watched closely and carefully… but I kissed him right when told to, and wiped the red lip print from his nose.  I didn’t know I would be kissing anyone. His name was Ashley. He said very little. All this, starting from a day where I filled my gas tank by the side of the road in full period attire, drove to Burbank and sat in a line of girls sipping cooler water, each of us in 40’s sun dresses, curled locks, and red lips, talking about the Oscars with a trapped young intern fellow behind the helm in front of us. “Goodbye!!” I said to them all, bidding farewell in a grand exit, using names with as much care and sincerity as possible. Gasping for breath like a sprinter.

And now I am eating a flattened salmon panini in a dim afternoon café, wearing old jeans, baggy T-Shirt, and an incongruous mid-century hairdo. In times like these I laugh to myself, wince, and laugh again, feeling the sparks of the rush, reminding myself I must do this again and again. I am looking for poetry around me, and I see this---

YES! I think I am.  

-Double-Ply Sensitivity-

Toilet Humour - The things you don't bring up (But then broadcast)



AT This moment, there are three rolls of toilet paper lining the perimeter of my house toilet. This is in addition to our storage space, where there are three different bulk bundles, all broken into in current use. Three roommates, three bundles. One might ask why this would ever be a complaint, more is better than none, right? Well, yes. But it raises an eyebrow. Upon looking closely, one would find that each bundle is distinctly different. My contribution to this stash is the cheapest, most economical, "get the job done" variety, the Scott Double-Roll. Hey, it's single-ply, it is rough, but it lasts forever! It leaves no trace! This practical move on my part has, however, become an unspoken hot-point for household controversy. 

You see, I live with two boys. Common phrases associated with this fact,  "Hey, less drama. Guys aren't as sensitive, so it'll be easy... Oh, and less bathroom territorialization, right?" Interesting. Somewhat true... but that doesn't mean there isn't detailed-- finesse- involved in their daily life. And perhaps my greatest point in opposition- the bathroom is quite possibly their kingdom, their sheltered womb-like domain. I am proving myself to be the toughest, most efficient, thick-skinned broad in town via this fact, oh, ok, the house at least!

                                     (Am I too tough??)

The other rolls represented in the paper line-up, standing freely upon porcelain, are two varieties of more extravagant TP. Mind you, the Scott roll I quickly lock and re-load to contnue my social experiment is completely full. (The catalyst for their resulting actions). One roommate reveals his own preferred selection: the tripple-ply, extra fluffy, quilted Cottonelle variety... The kind that only lasts three visits, the kind that leaves fuzzballs everywhere. Who wants fuzzballs?! It implies embarassing carelessness, and there is no way to avoid them with all that ply. I have even heard it requires five-ply initially, in the making of said fluff, down at the plant. The other roommate has recently added his preference to the other two fully available rolls: the quilted single-ply, that seems to have little animal and flower shapes cut into it. The only difference between that and mine are the little animals, and less quantity. Now... I ask, why? The little designs mentally smoothen the experience, I suppose. Provide more crevices for grip? Too much information? Three rolls on display- The Fluffy, The Artistic, The Warrior- at all times. It really is ridiculous, all that toilet paper everywhere, but the extra rolls won't be hidden. They always resurface at moments throughout the day. Such delicacy, the toilet experience. I thought of making cute nametags for each of them, but then my warrior TP really might instigate war, and I think perhaps this sleeping fuzzball should lie (Well, until their girlfriends find fuzzballs at inopportune moments, and inquire, revealing the world of practice I am now aware of.) I will leave it until then.

                                 

What does it all mean? The throne hour may be the most vulnerable for any man. There is great ritual involved requiring time, space, the use of perfect tools. Maybe this is the way women and men can close the gap, to understand each other, to reach the delicate under belly...

It seems to me that the way to a man's sensitivity, is through his bottom.

___________________________________________________________

-Sweet Yams-

Food Madonnas- Some moments are small.

On Decoy Christmas... Pretend Christmas that was instated for my LA family, permitting day-drinking and bloody mary's til Tuesday- I was in process of making sweet potato pancakes for the clan. (It is a shame that the word "clan" has be co-opted by a horrific, disdainful social group, what a great way to describe a group of closely knit people... I will proceed by saying "group.") I was making sweet potato pancakes for the group, and as I sliced into my giant yam... (I might also say that "fag" has turned treacherous socially, and I really loved that Brit colloquial phrase for cigarette...  Step out for a fag? Anyone? No... I don't smoke, do I.)

I was slicing the yam, and grimacing to myself. I have absolutely terrible knives in the kitchen, really sub standard. In past, a dear friend came to visit, and cooked dinner for the -group- on the condition that I acquire a new knife, it was an embarassing sign, a cook that chops with steak knives? Dull steel hacks? (One of my collected knives was found in the laundry room of my Boston-Brookline Apartment... Next to old magazines, and an icy draft. It was the best we had.) The knife acquired in wake of public notice, and apauled commentary, has since joined the ranks of the shabby collection, seeing as it was only ten dollars, at a small Thai-town mini mart. Quality? Quantity. I was gay as can be this morning, (I was gay, a real homo! Oh no, Gay has a separate meaning, right... I meant to say, chipper, in good spirits... fanciful. One really must be careful with nouns and adjectives these days. I was open minded and cheery.) 

Chopping away, hollering at my roommate indiscernable banter, singing along to Christmas songs and staving off the blasting of champagne corks for the moment when we would include the clan in the !POP! Who were currently smoking -cigarettes- on the porch, in a -group. My heart was full, and I kept thinking of the fact that I have family so many places now... NY, LA, SF, Boston, Seattle, AUS-WA... (WA, I am from WA and have family in WA- Western Australia. Family in WA pronounces Wash, "Warsh." In WA, "WAosh.") And all the while these thoughts spun.... Decoy Christmas Yams spun into cakes, and along came this...


                         
   

YEP. That said it all.
Alot of love.

-STOP! In The....-

An Unexpected Exchange

IT was a rainy night, and I was on my way to work on the Scoot Scoot. I was definitely taking it slow because roads in LA become a hazard any time a bit of moisture falls, lifting the weeks of accumulating oil to a treacherous surface, in spectrum of indigo. Sirens and rainy days simply go hand in hand. As the weather becomes wild, long palm branches are strewn about on the back roads, giant ladles, or anvils depending which part of the fall you have witnessed. It was the same this evening. Scooter traps. As I navigated carefully through, and came to the stop sign bordering a busy rush hour road, a running man approached the curb to the cross walk. I was slightly surprised to see a runner, as it was inclement, and Angelenos fear cold. He was bundled up, gloves on, and jogged in place. I wondered what he was waiting for. I was stopped behind the cross walk looking for the right moment to turn left into traffic.... When he raised his hand to me like Aretha Franklin saying,

"STOP!" 

No... Too flamboyant and sass-insinuating. It was more like a parking attendant saying,

"STOP," You are successfully in the slip.

No, too mundane... It was serious. Authoritative. As we locked eyes, I sitting there with Scoot Scoot humming, blinker clicking, having been waiting patiently for about a minute, the man yelled with lifted arm and palm,

"TAKE YOUR TIME." His eyes continued to hold to mine, looking down slightly in a knowing manner.

I nodded sheepishly, like I had been caught, "OK." Then found my window of opportunity, and drove on, wondering why I had just had that ominous interaction. I thought to myself, "Who sent you!" In an imaginary scenario, where I demand that of him dramatically, and he only smiles, mystically, and looking back, he is gone... or something. "Who sent you!" I demand of him in my mind again, and the jogger is transformed into a man wearing a white suit, playing the piano. Morgan Freeman, perhaps. And I smile and say, "You got it, Morgan." And he glides down the keys something fabulous.

The mystery remained on my mind, "Take your time." Had he lost someone close to him on a motorcycle? Had he been mowed down by one in past, and now distrusts motor bikes? Or an off duty-police officer, who has seen the worst... ? Whatever it was, I was surprised that someone took a moment to speak to me, with power, and a rather imposing physical gesture-- When it is hard to get a nod out of strangers in big cities, most of the time. I was a little shaken up, and wondered why. And proceeded to Take My Time.

(BUT REALLY, WHO SENT YOU)

The Jelly Belly

"Intimate Food Experiences"

IT was a sleepy night at the restaurant, and I was passing the time by sneaking back into the kitchen and eating jelly beans. It was one of those fabulously fun Jelly Belly assortment boxes that seem to show up in work places around the holidays, with all sorts of non-candy tastes injected into them, and a fun illustrated key to go by. I felt like a lab rat trying the mad imaginings of a scientist. Caramel corn.... GO. The taste... chew, chew, chew...
         "Corn! It tastes like corn!!"
Moving on to the scientist ____+____= ____ key. Try these three flavors in conjunction, and... TIRAMISU. GO. The taste, chew, chew, chew...
         "Tiramisu!! This gooey muddle is Tiramisu!" And who would have thought a jelly bean marked A&W Cream Soda would have gotten you there.

At any rate, I was very busy at work, not working, studying this line of science, when a root beer Jelly went missing from my hands. Magic bean. Gone. I didn't think much of it and went on with my duties to complete the evening.
           "Run these salmon to 14."
           "OK."
And all was usual. Until I reached home and immediately began to change into comfortable clothes... Took my shirt off, ran my hands across my stomach, and felt a lump sticking out of my belly button. I immediately assumed, "removable belly-button piece, like an infant." I don't know why. Pulled it out... And found the missing Root Beer Jelly, that had been lodged in there the whole time since the vanishing bean, several hours at least. It had begun to melt. I wondered if this sugar suppository was what had kept me amped all night. Does that work with a belly button? Is this a potential new line of research, marsupial drugs? I luckily decided not eat it, as one may guess at a time like this, but threw it away heartily, and tried to get the sugar out. How it had managed to work it's way there through my white button-up shirt, I do not know. Magic.

This situation goes into the folder of: Intimate Food Experiences. Like the time when I fell asleep with chocolate bites in bed, and woke up-- covered in melted chocolate, hands, pillows, sheets... mimicking a moment of horror similar to the horse's head in The Godfather. Chocolate really looks scary in dull light, let me tell you. There was a scream and face of terror. I did, in that moment however, lick away some of the chocolate.
JELLY BELLY.

                   
                   

"But... Why?"

We don't have the beats, or the smoke-filled readings... but we have a keen sense of sharing observations. Hope to transcend, to find depth, to start our own revolution with thought!
Let's search for and share the New Poetry as it changes form...

In a small moment:
                                                   
SITTING outside on a metal folding chair, I was waiting for an audition. Several people milled around in stileto boots, carrying portfolios. A director talked to an actress about her ability to do stunts... She looked nervous, but said she was able. I looked down to my multi colored loafers and old sweater, and wondered what piece of the puzzle I would fit into amidst this lot, if any.

I had just found out that I hadn't gotten called back for a project I had been working incredibly hard for, for some time. Disappointment was definitely sitting with me, though you are supposed to brush these things off and move along. Logically, that is what you say, but it never really works completely. Because there was a moment you were very hopeful about the outcome, and had to be in order to continue onwards. And that hope must be redirected in the moment of "no."

On this day, as I sat reading over blue high-lighted lines, another moment of optimism setting in... A little boy came out of the audition studios holding the hand of his mom. He was dressed in a smart little plaid shirt and khakkis, and carried himself like this whole thing was his idea. As he squinted his eyes looking upwards to mom, he said, "But... But... I don't understand why I didn't get a call back on that audition." He looked down to his loafers in reflection, and pulled down on her arm in protest. She bustled along to the car with keys jangling as he continued, "They said I was the best in the whole day!  They... they said I was the best! But why didn't I get a call back? Why?" She didn't know what to say. A tugging arm and hustle seemed to be the answer. He continued to look into the sun, to his mother's face, that said, "Onwards we go."

I smiled to myself because I related to the little boy. He didn't know it, but I was comforted in sharing that moment with him- we understood each other- a little five year old who decided to make fighting upstream his life, as I did.

_________________________________________________________

-THE INSPIRATION-

Langston Hughes defines poetry:

"It is the human soul entire, squeezed like a lemon or a lime, drop by drop, into atomic words."

                                                      

HOW is the "human soul entire" expressed today? Without a pen, a product, or even audience- I say it is still expressed. Poetry, I think, is also a way of being-- Our atomic selves leaping, in passing moments. The question is: what will we see, and what will we say? How to interpret this energy. Verse poetry may be out of date for the daily review, perhaps lyrics in songs have taken the place of worn books, but I believe that one may still experience this sense of heightened reality, driving one to potent thought, and observation in the world that offers itself. This must be accessible to us, so that our humanity continues to grow in depth, to remain in a culture that values insight. But isn't poetry brooding, and indulgent? What is the way to relish, then? It is at our finger tips. A philosophical point-- Life is simply Optimistic, no matter how it is experienced. The body must remain hopeful, or how would it re-generate. The mind must remain generous, or how would it interact to absorb. No matter what emotion we experience, vibrant life in contrast is shooting out of us. And I hope to take stock of these moments, one by one. To relish daily poetry, in motion!