Find me a home, where the buffalo roam

CHESS SALONS: Look i see culture happening!

Contrasting with the rhythm of my brisk nyc walking pace, I alternated my head back and forth like a tennis spectator in slow motion. As any person who likes to gaze into a sunset and philosophize, I was, "people watching." I did a double take as I walked by a little store with a group of people playing chess, all in a row like the people you see crouched over in a nail salon. I thought, wow, I really love NYC. Such novel concepts--from bocce ball bars to, "chess salons." Perhaps this is something that is culturally catching on. Chess playing is cool! After all, i did just play chess with my dad when the power was out for days during the recent northeast October snowstorm. But ya know, this is cool happening in front of me, before we can make it cool and say it's cool. I didn't see any immediate evidence of what people call "hipster" at this little chess salon, but perhaps this was the new anti-hipster-hipster hangout, one that appeared popular among women. My analysis escalated as I contemplated the modern female woman and the logistics of how this neat place acquired revenue. There was likely a creative "hook" involved, like a beauty product prize or martini bar. This would produce an oximoronic or perhaps ironic sense of girliness as these female clichés combine with the game. And then, just as my brain was skipping along with excitement about the entrepreneurial possibilities I imagined, I realized it WAS a nail salon. No chess board. No chess figurines. Just little nail polish paints. Just girls getting their nails done near 53rd and First Ave.

Hi my name is S(h)ara, and I am an overly analytical girl. Now, who's down for a game of chess and a dirty martini?

Daymare: Mom's Metastatic Melanoma

This blog began as a way to tell stories. Stories from the road away from home. Then it began a way to view "home" as foreign by noticing the intricate surprises of every-day corners. And suddenly this past month it becomes a coping mechanism. A final gasp for neutral air as I face the most heartbreaking nightmare I could ever experience. My mother is suffering with metastatic melanoma--a fast moving cancer that can pop up at any time in any part of the body faster than most doctors can track and hunt it down. In the blink of an eye, my adventures have arrived at a daymare of sorts--as if these many travel and home "roads" were being devoured slowly by a team of bulldozers. They move slowly and mechanically so that we can hear every sad crunch as I fight as hard as possible without any control.

My dining room table, typically filled with family and catch-up stories and silly nicknacks like sunglasses and ski passes, has suddenly become a desperate source of ever growing prescriptions. The pile of paperwork explaining the prescriptions, each explaining when to take, what to avoid, what to realize will happen as a side effect, appears just as daunting as the many shapes and sizes spilling from the little bottles.

As I hold my mothers hand, snuggling in a blanket that she bought me for my college dorm days, choking back the tortuous lump in my throat that continues to trigger my tears, I listen to my mom's shrieks of pain and charge my eyes open in disbelief. I force my eyes to bulge outward, quietly. There must be some way to wake up from this nightmare. But it is real. So real that to even smile feels like a painful extraordinarily other worldly concept.

And every day my family and I try to hope that the green from my mother's face will turn rosier, the grimace will turn happier, her newly healing wounds will mend nicely, something becomes worse. The only thing we can do is watch meaningless daytime television, like family feud or Judge Judy, alternating with deeply emotional cries of grief.

I've been a rock for my family, holding us together as we deal with insurance denials of treatment that has happened, through my mom's attempted exits from a moving vehicle, through endless hospital cycles and depression. I--the one family member that my mom insisted could NOT know about her melanoma for over a year--have been the one breathing my way through several breakdowns and coaxing final threads of positivity to knit us together. But rocks crack easily. Finally yesterday I just cracked like a baby. And as I cry with my mom, and apologize for living so far away all this time, and her--apologizing for the fact that she is making us feel this way-- we cannot even embrace one another. The cancer in her back has bloomed so forcefully that it hurts her to hug me, or even sob.

People say we should value our final days together rather than mourn an oncoming death. this is not easy. Mom and I tried this by taking a trip to Target. We used to love shopping together--which usually meant mom finding things and laughing, "I had something just like that in the 60s" and I would laugh saying, "i know, i found it in the basement and wore it out!" But as we walked through the corridors of Target, slowly as she uses a cane like an "old lady" we know it could be our last shopping moment. Regardless of the nostalgia the pain in mom's body is so great that she almost faints walking back to the car. And she suffers extraordinarily during the night after the extra effort. I cry feeling guilty that I encouraged the trip. Enjoyment is physically impossible.

I charge forward, attacking the scene with phone calls, online research, sifting mentally through the overwhelming array of information trickling from friends and relatives who "know someone who had melanoma". I make demands to her doctors even though I appear like a crazy kid, crafting my words to scowl verbally at the insipid insurance company, pointing fingers like a mad barking orchestra conductor to everyone around me who seems lazy. But regardless of my viscous go-getter attitude and hostage-negotiating communication skills with my stubborn mother, most of the moments we, I, mom... are helpless. The meaning of Friday has shifted from "happy hour" and celebratory weekend-welcoming to a dreaded deadline, leaving us free from office hours and in the hands of fate for the weekend, left for our cries to echo alone without the help of doctors. And when the doctors are available during the week, they seem to forget our detailed descriptions of mom's pain, missing important clues, lagging behind as the cancer blooms and takes root faster than her slow moving treatment. My mother, my best friend, my idol, my role model, is in the hands of one world-famous doctor. But he is just a man. A man with research. With a kind heart and a million other patients. A clock ticks loudly in all of our heads. with each tick we are grateful we can tell her again how much we love her, with each tock, we scream silently by all of the horror.


I would never wish this twist. this bulldozed road. on my worst enemy.

Ojai Road Trip

Sois Confiante

Sois confiante
tu peux le faire

be confident.
you can do it.
grampa wheat.

Dresser Serenades

Creativity Disobeys

I told creativity to be quiet
I told it to stay calm
I have to study until the break of dawn.

There it went, it wouldn't stay
Wearable art that disobeyed.

Stressfully Soft

When stresses snowball
increasing in speed
frenzies faster and faster
vibrating notes
blending together
that suddenly there is a hum
A silence.
A calm.
A scary calm.
like the heavy insulated white velvet of a snowstorm.
Covering the screams of swerving vehicles.
but this time dark. unbeautifully quiet.
a dark calm that shakes your bones
and your insides start to quiver.

sometimes only the soft.
the simple.
the lost and found things
soothe the separated soul.

little pressed knots, balls, twists of yarns.
warm colors matching the green
where the dyes were made
a little Bolivian headband
that traveled to Argentina then back to me
reminding my head of where i've been
where i'm going
where i long to return
where i haven't been
and where I want to get lost.

This time breathing.
and back on track.

Tummy (Tick)Tock

I had a nemesis in elementary school. Two of them--they were twins. Dana and Danielle. They lived up the street from me. We both had gerbils and guinea pigs. They got bored with theirs and released them into the little public creek that separated our sides of the street. My parents helped my brother and I construct little wooden houses for our guinea pigs--we sat their drawing up plans and nailing them together, with special trips to Home Depot. They boasted about their parents' money. I didn't notice. Like me, Dana and Danielle were tomboys--always climbing the trees and obsessed with winning all of the games in gym class. i got injured a lot. they loved that. They had short brown hair and I had long fuzzy blonde hair. They were mean, I was "kill-em-with-kindness." They were loud and i was mute. I was easy to pick on, but forcefully strong when it came to winning an argument through my accomplishments. They made fun of me for being in the smart classes and countless other aspects of school life. I always knew that I was above them so i never really let it bother me. But there was one day in fourth grade that something that they said--after all the bullying and name-calling and elegant tough skin that I maintained--they won. It got to me.

We were waiting in line to leave, and Dana started talking about belly buttons. I was paranoid because my belly button had a little slit in the middle--as if it were a little phillips screw at the inside of it. It was technically an "innie" with a tiny tiny bit of "outie" at the bottom--or at least i remember thinking of it that way when i was little. I don't know what it was about my belly button that made me so insecure; I was a little ballerina ski racer, with a mini-six pack, and I hated bikinis. Dana went around and asked people what kind of belly button they had, asking people to lift up their shirts. It was mortifying. As she approached me i could feel my cheeks ignite in fire and my voice started to knot up. There standing in front of me, with a scowl on her face she just yelled as loud as she could, "outie!" and moved on, without even lifting up my shirt. My elementary school crush--lets say Jessie here--was standing right next to me, and i remember wanting to curl up right there on the ground. I don't know what made me so upset--the fact that she only said that to embarass me, one of many little jealous jibes that had previously amused me. Or maybe it was because she had not even given me a chance to act confident, or to lift up my own shirt, or to resist her orders at all. IT was the whole process--the giving in to her bullying that made me cry for the rest of the day, like the little wimp that I hated to be. Outtie's as they were called, were not even a big deal--but to me, it was this little button that set me off in a spin of self-hatred.

All of that seemed so silly. And I could recount several other traumatic childhood stories that are far more "embarrassing" as a simple belly-button escapade. But it really calls to mind the relationship between childhood emotion, the body, and how memory can magnify over time. How is it that I remember that story, and not the one where i broke my arm, or when I got lost in Disneyworld? How can a simple belly button ignite such raw emotion?

I still don't really show my stomach, but i've been thinking about tummies. Having an upset stomach. The pride of a pregnant woman's protruding belly--the one time that it is socially appropriate to have a big gut. How the skin of the belly is actually quite sexy and erotic without being overtly risqué. A woman, about 19, walked into a coffee shop the other day with a crop-top shirt on. Okay, no one could stop staring at her because her boob was peeking out from the bottom of it--which was incredibly inappropriate beacause it was NOT warm outside, but still--I couldn't stop staring. She rocked it. Bellies are thethe ultimate sign of confidence--when a bunch of dudes spell out a word with sportsgames, or someone without a small waste rips their shirt off in drunken silliness--it's all a sign of wonderful confidence. I'm even told that sleeping on my stomach is so addicting because it gives us a sense of security---to sleep on one's back exposes the vulnerable stomach.

So i suppose this photo is a bit of a coming-of-age for me. Dana--I never really cared about your little attempts to jab me with your insecurities. I always knew that i'd surpass you with my kindness, honesty, grace, and genuine love for giving to people. But I've never liked my stomach. Today, i'm going to like my stomach in honor of you.

I made a self portrait. Music, tummy, vulnerability, and confidence mixed into one.

Yes, i said it. I did it. I'm not going to pretend like i didn't squirm around in my little viewfinder to find the most artistic pose. I admit it. BUt so what. It's my photograph. It's my body. It's my metaphor. Mine, thrown into this silly cyberspace world for someone to read for some kind of connection.



Tiptoe Tiger has begun to roar.

Two new truths

Two truths learned this week
1. Not playing games is itself a game.

Twitter has been quite the fascinating open book for peering into the male and female psyche. I constantly see posts like, "girls, stop playing games, we don't want to chase you" or "i'm sick of all these games" or even in my own song from a few years ago i wrote, "I'm so tired of the games, i don't know if i'm the knight or the pawn or the queen."(pronounced "quayne" to rhyme of course). But seriously, how can anyone NOT play games? Even if a person is direct to their friends or their romantic subjects of interest, that in itself is a strategy. A strategy of confidence. A strategy of going after what is wanted. The truth it, it's impossible to tell if a person is being "forward" as a "game", or if he/she is just naturally confident. I psyche myself up all the time to be brave and say/do things that I feel are necessary, but am I comfortable doing it? Am i just a good actor?My spectrum of shyness varies, depending on the person, the situation, the year--being able to control that is admirable but impossible. Even to just "be yourself" is in some ways a complete game--i dont mean to say that one should be anything but natural or open about their actions and intentions (I wish I could "lie" better sometimes, and I think that my "natural" ability to blush on cue does the speaking for me most times), but there is a great spectrum of appropriateness on all sides; if you are in tune with your surroundings and other people's feelings, then you are going to adapt/force/rebel against/continue with what you intend to do in some way. Everything is a game in some way, because we are constantly negotiating what we think will happen, what we want to happen, how we feel, what we notice, and everyone around us is doing the same thing. Honesty?-- Well, that's perhaps the important kernal to question in this mess.

and maybe--if you are like me-- faced in that moment of confrontation or of going "after" what you want, you think precisely all of the things that I just wrote... overanalyzing in the millisecond that you have available to you.. and then you freeze, unable to say or do a damn thing. I know this freeze quite well. The eternal freeze of information overload.


2. ultimate balance is being confident enough to share an honest opinion and humble enough to consider changing one's mind. (thx Ari Joseph for this insight.)

I think that this in itself is easy to understand, honest, and to the point. Thanks Ari Joseph.

Goodbye Darling

Goodbye darling
Twas a good run
Sweetened blush for everyone
Goodbye cheery chum next door,
Tiptoe tiger out to roar.

Picking Flowers

I picked a flower today.

Sheetal Gandhi and Human Nature

Article written for Sheetal Gandhi, recipient of a C.O.L.A grant.(for individual LA artists) This will be published on the COLA website .
(photo above right by CedarBough Saeji):
------------

I remember first meeting Sheetal Gandhi in 2006. “My name is Sheetal,” she said, projecting her voice smoothly and melodically from her petite frame. “Sheetal...As in, Lethal Sheetal” she added, and those of us around her smiled immediately. Her performances are just like this—graceful, honest, and colorful, with a mischievous penchant for playful contradiction. I sat down five years later to talk to her about performance, inspirations, and arriving at her latest project, Human Nature.

Gandhi is a multi-style dancer, multi-disciplinary choreographer, theatrical character-shifter and rhythmic vocalist. On stage these hyphenated phrases disappear and she becomes much more simply, a Storyteller. At her performances, I often find myself fighting the urge to fold my legs in my seat like I did when I was a child—cross-legged and eagerly gazing up towards the book that my teacher was reading aloud. This magical excitement is what Gandhi loves to capture and share with her audience. Through virtuosic movement isolations, charging rhythms, effervescent texts, and richly vocalized melodies, her tales tug at the heart-strings, tickle the funny bone, and evoke a sense of the terrifyingly familiar. In the end—and you may hope that it does not arrive—you will have followed her narrative through many of your senses.

Gandhi’s artistic story is one that weaves together variation just like her characters on stage. From a young age Gandhi was immersed in classical music and theater but found that the dancing body could encompass many kinds of communicative power, leading her to study choreography at UC Irvine and UCLA. Along the way, she has danced across cultural borders, incorporating the rhythms she has learned from studying abroad in Ghana, training in Kathak (a classical dance from Northern India,) and from frequent visits to the hometowns of her parents in Mumbai and Gujarat. As Gandhi listed some of her choreographic accomplishments, she paused when remembering her time with Cirque du Soleil. “Cirque taught me that performance could be transformative, and I never forgot that sense of magic that it could bring to an audience.” And transforming is exactly what she mastered in her most recent work entitled, Bahu-Beti-Biwi (Daughter-in-law, Daughter, Wife)—a one-woman-show that she has been touring since its acclaimed debut in 2008. Although solo work is a relatively new trademark for Gandhi, the result of a “risky self-challenge” in graduate school, it has enabled her to sew many of her performance skills together in ways that were only possible alone. “Lethal Sheetal” is not afraid of risk-taking.

When I asked Gandhi about her upcoming project, Human Nature, she pointed to a kelly-green book that was framed in her living room. I gasped! It was The Giving Tree by renowned whimsical storyteller Shel Silverstein—the story about a boy, a tree, and the limits of love and sacrifice. “That has been my favorite book for some time!” I said. Gandhi smiled, explaining that reactions just like mine—inscribed with childhood nostalgia and deep emotional impact—were what interested her. Along with celebrating the book’s timeless relevance, Gandhi posed some questions at the heart of her project. Why do people give? What do we expect in return? Are women more prone to self-sacrifice than men? What will happen when we live in a world where nature cannot give selflessly anymore? The inner child, woman, and human in me simultaneously had her attention as she exposed some of her own vulnerable observations about sacrifice, family, and American entitlement.

Gandhi struggled to begin a new project after the success of Bahu-Beti-Biwi, but found new motivation by challenging herself with a completely new choreographic process. She will integrate multimedia and video installation within her recreation of Silverstein’s story. “I’ve always been critical about incorporating technology for the sake of technology” she admits. “So I’m taking a big risk… by trying to surpass what I myself critique, and by testing the limits of my imagination.” And she continued to explain that she is fascinated by the unique ways in which technology can help tell a story. Human Nature, will therefore culminate in many layers of give-and-take, including her performance between body and technology.

Sheetal Gandhi is a stunning performer, with a colorful physical, visual, linguistic, humanistic, and musical palate. As her story unfolds, be warned: you may want to sit cross-legged like you did as a child as the magic unfolds. Not to worry, you will not be the only one.




By Sara Stranovsky

Off the Map

I have no time to write songs.
But looking outside, and trying to push out some nostalgia creepin up from heart to head just came out in a rapid-fire song. FOr the first time I actually think i might let the song speak for itself, so I'm going to past the lyrics here. We all have corners, secret spots, and a small space that's just ours.

----
OFF THE MAP

There is this corner
I know it well
It’s my corner but I won’t tell
Where it is, because it’s my corner.
And it’s off the map.

There is this corner
The pavement is cracked
With a little ole scoop missin
from impact
of somethin heavy-hearted and strong
It’s mine and it’s off the map.


There’s this corner
Where there’s always a weed,
or a moping beetle or dropped birdseed
And it’s comforting to stand right there
Just there, off the map.

When you stand right there
On this small corner
Where the brick, and dandelions meet
You’ll know you’ve found it with a force through your feet,
On my corner, off the map

there’s this corner
I know it well,
It’s findable if you’re not lookin,
And when you find it you will know with a zap,
Because you’ll be off the map.

Theirs is this corner
I know it well
It’s my corner but I won’t tell
Where it is, because it’s my corner
And it’s off the map.

Dog Town? Hollyweird.

I found myself assisting these dogs in a film today. Funny story...

A close dancer-friend of mine relayed my name to her film friend, because he needed someone to help swiftly "fly" lap-dogs in a green screen. Or at least that's why I thought i was going to do. Turns out I mostly helped assist with the crew on set, moving soccer nets, holding these amazing dogs, and I didn' tget a chance to "fly" them in the green screen... still, funny how our paths cross sometimes.

[more to write, will fill in the blanks soon]

Check out Patrick Scott's films and work. He's fantastic. http://www.heypscott.com/

falling poems

The cavaquinho story continued today. (see earlier entries in 2010 and 2008).

Out of an old book fell two items that I had thought I had lost! (My clumsy hands knocked over the book, but my dancer tendencies swiftly enabled me to catch it with ease. I suppose things even out that way a lot.)

one: a love poem written hilariously, with such performative zest in Louis Baptista's instrument-making studio, by his friend. This guy was aggressive, forward, obnoxious, always eager to get some kind of laughing response.. but in the form of rhyming (rather cheesy) poems. What a delight to find years later, whopping a huge smile on my face during a time of glum.

Two: hand-written chords to learn on my cavaquinho, slightly puzzling since i don't really think of things in terms of "do re mi fa so" etc, but altogether moved by the grace of these little drawings. Maybe i'll finally learn a few more chords.

Falling poems, falling little drawings.

I don't want to stop to smell the roses

but i'll look up.

Cup-Cup thumbs UP UP.

It's a typical sunny morning in Venice, California, where the sun gently reaches into the window and wakes you up. Well, no, that's not quite true. What really woke you up was the sound of a screaming transvestite who yells like clockwork as she revs up an old VW Van in the alley outside the window. We will just ignore that for now. You should really start your work day, but grabbing a good cup of coffee and perfectly sized breakfast is part of your morning ritual. Maintaining your procrastination ritual is the only remedy for that procrastination--at least, you have somehow convinced yourself of this. You crave hot food: something "real" and not just a pastry. You tell yourself that it is just too "difficult" to cook your own eggs, so instead you hop on your bike and begin your quotidian hunt, not realizing that you could have made and eaten three omelets by now if you had just made them yourself.

But you are in luck!

Your friend Vavine has the perfect option to soothe that grouchy sarcastic morning vibe: CUP-CUP! Little bites of goodness for five bucks, including outter pastry and inner "real food" in the perfect little artsy cove behind Big Red Sun on Rose Ave. Alas, you can procrastinate that work you have to do, and quench your thirst for atmosphere and morning ritual.

I've been to cupcup three times. I've tried all four of the selections that Vavine (aka "V") offers. I also love the "drizzle sauce" that V makes herself for the veggie cupcup. My favorite is the spinach veggie option. The coolest part is that each bite is slightly different because these goodies aren't mixed up but carefully arranged inside the little cup-o-goodness. A surprise little piece of egg fluff, feta cheese, or mushroom and you'll light up with a smile while you're eating. This might be awkward for you to smile while you chew, but don't fret. Other people are "smile-chewing" too.

The atmosphere is precisely what venice is all about---sun-drenched nooks and crannies that make you want to simultaneously and impossibly keep the "secret" to yourself while telling everyone you know. The coffee on the cart next to cupcup is strong in a good way, and made on the spot in that drippy-filter-style that takes hours at Intelligencia Coffee.

The sit-down area in the back of big red sun will make you feel like you are in a grownup morning playground-- colorful benches and chairs each very different and equally welcoming. Or maybe the bright red shiny plastic tables and chairs will make you feel like you're in South America where everyone sits outside, has their coffee (sorry, no beer), and listens to or plays music. The girls (of Cup Cup and Stumptown coffee) will probably be playing blues on their radio, just loud enough to add to that smile but subtle enough that it will just wind around your ears like the steam from your coffee.

Okay, I've used the word, "feel" a lot in this little chunk of text. But maybe that's what mornings should be all about--feeling like you're starting your day off right. Well, i don't know. I haven't read the Secret--the book, that is.

Speaking of secrets, SHHHHH. Cup-Cup is a secret. but also. tell everyone.

Primitivized and Dusted off

Bluegrass at The Mint: with American Primitive and the Infamous Stringdusters


American Primitive:
Watch out for these boys. Not only will your feet be tappin, you'll be laughing and smiling as they cover fabulous pop tunes (OutKast's Hey Ya and LaRoux's Bulletproof, for example) that you never thought could possibly be "blue-grass'ified." From the charming French lyrics of Les Filles Françaises, to speed-defying violin and guitar solos (seriously their fingers are blurry in the majority of my photographs), and full-drumset-in-palm-of-hand percussion(Brazilian pandeiro), these handsome boys make shakin' up bluegrass with their own style look so easy. With the right amount of pun-infused humorous banter--not too long, and often including a cd giveaway trivia contest--and swapping of singers, they have a charm to their show that makes you feel like you're getting to know them and drinking a beer with them while they're playing. And they can time-travel, too, reverting seamlessly back to traditional tunes like Shady Grove and Freebourn Man with wink-speed.

They play more and more regularly, at the downtown Artwalk, Sunday evenings at BigFoot West in Mar Vista, and often at Basement Tavern in Santa Monica.

check out their new website and facebook fanpage:
http://www.facebook.com/americanprimitive
http://www.americanprimitive.net



Infamous Stringdusters
I never knew I could have weak knees from watching a slide guitarist. It's like one of those little ornaments where the string is pulled via button on the bottom where the little guy's knees fold over and he squashes down. Well, with each rippin slide solo that's pretty much what happens. And i'm not even a die-hard bluegrass or country listener. Good stuff. The infamous stringdusters have a full FULL packed band, and each member is so fantastic that you feel like you want to revert back to high school lingo, "man, that's SOOO UNFAIR!." And with perfectly in tune (but not trying too hard, perfect) four-part harmonies that chime in with the onset of quick instrumental silences, that just makes for some mmmgood. Just like campbell's soup.

on Travel and space.

"travel is a poetic adventure, a method of concrete knowledge, an ordeal, a symboli way to stop growing old, to deny time by crossing space..." --Michel Leiris, L'Afrique fantome, 1934.

I am derailed by the phrase, "to deny time by crossing space." For me, this is the quintessential point of irony for travel, and befitting for my blog that was originally created as a "travel" blog, but from which I soon fled, fearing the cliches of the self-finding traveller that i am now learning to loathe in graduate school. But these words go beyond the travel experience--whether it is the superficial tourist, the ethnographer in the field doing "prestigious" cultural research, or the tired student who scurries off to different cafes in order to feel like time isn't swiftly peeling away. This phrase unites us all.